The Big Book of Espionage

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

  “I would, yes. In Russia we have vodka but we don’t have beer. Not good beer.”

  The agent rose and went to the refrigerator. He returned with two bottles of Lone Star, opened them, and handed one to the spy.

  Kaverin lifted his. “Za zdorovie! It means, ‘To our health.’ ”

  They tapped bottles and both took long sips. Kaverin enjoyed the flavor very much, and the FBI agent regarded the bottle with pleasure. “I’m not supposed to be doing this, you know. Mr. Hoover doesn’t approve of drinking liquor.”

  “No one will ever know, Special Agent Barter,” Kaverin told him. “I’m quite good at keeping secrets.”

  TUESDAY

  TOP SECRET

  NOVEMBER 26, 1963

  FROM: OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY OF DEFENSE, THE PENTAGON, ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  TO: SECRETARY OF THE ARMY

  SECRETARY OF THE NAVY

  SECRETARY OF THE AIR FORCE

  SECRETARY OF THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF

  Be advised that President Lyndon Baines Johnson today issued National Security Action Memorandum 273. This order reverses NSAM 263, issued by the late President Kennedy in October of this year, which ordered the withdrawal of U.S. troops from Vietnam and the transfer of responsibility in countering communist insurgency in Southeast Asia to the Vietnamese and neighboring governments.

  NSAM 273 provides for maintenance of existing U.S. troop strength in Vietnam and sets forth a commitment to increased American military and advisory presence in combating communism in the region.

  THE SPY WHO CLUTCHED A PLAYING CARD

  EDWARD D. HOCH

  ALTHOUGH HE WROTE a few slim novels, including The Shattered Raven (1969), The Transvection Machine (1971), and The Fellowship of the Hand (1973), all largely forgotten today, Edward Dentinger Hoch (1930–2008) was a rare exception to the accepted wisdom that it is virtually impossible to earn a living writing short stories exclusively. He produced about nine hundred stories in his career, approximately half of them published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, beginning in 1962. In May 1973, Hoch started a remarkable run of publishing at least one story in every issue of EQMM until his death—and beyond, as he had already delivered additional stories.

  Readers have never been able to decide which of Hoch’s series characters was their favorite as he created numerous protagonists, including the bizarre Simon Ark, who claims to be two thousand years old and was the central character of his first published story, “Village of the Dead” (1955); Nick Velvet, the thief who steals only such innately worthless objects as the water in a swimming pool and the dust from an otherwise empty room (the first Velvet story was “The Theft of the Clouded Tiger,” 1966); and Dr. Sam Hawthorne, who specializes in solving locked room and other impossible crimes and made his first appearance in 1974 in “The Problem of the Covered Bridge.” Hoch also produced stories pseudonymously as Stephen Dentinger, Pat McMahon, Mr. X, and R. L. Stevens. He also ghostwrote an Ellery Queen novel, The Blue Movie Murders (1972).

  Among Hoch’s creations that appeared most prolifically was Jeffery Rand, the Double-C Man whose genius as a counterespionage agent, specializing in codes and ciphers, elevated him to be the head of the Department of Concealed Communications, a division of British Intelligence; during the course of the series, he resigns to work as a freelancer.

  “The Spy Who Clutched a Playing Card” was originally published in the February 1968 issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.

  THE SPY WHO CLUTCHED A PLAYING CARD

  EDWARD D. HOCH

  DURING FEBRUARY and March the Gulf of Finland was always icebound, and this winter proved to be no exception. The flat stretch of snow which covered the ice sparkled in the afternoon sun, broken only occasionally by the tracks of a passing patrol vehicle or the irregular trail of some winter creature.

  Near one shore, in an area where man rarely ventured during these frozen months, a single frost-crusted truck rested silently on great balloon snow tires. At the back of the truck a man dressed in white worked at a sort of drill that was boring through the snow and frozen earth toward some unseen goal. He worked quickly in the cold, glancing now and then at the distant white horizon as if fearing interruption.

  Finally, deciding somehow that he was nearing his goal, he slowed the drill and carefully withdrew it from the hole. From the rear of this truck he pulled a coil of wire and some insulated tools. He was stooping over the hole, intent on his work, when the single shot came, a flat echoing sound that swept quickly over the terraces of snow and then was gone.

  No other sound followed, and there was nothing to confirm its passing, except that the figure in white no longer worked by his truck. Now he was crumbled to the ground, and already the shifting snow—like desert sand or lazy waves—was beginning to lap and pull at his body…

  * * *

  —

  Hastings had phoned Rand just after nine, asking him to see a certain Mr. Greene from Washington. When the visitor entered the office of Concealed Communications a half hour later, Rand needed only a single glance to know that the man was from the C.I.A. He hoped that the Americans were a bit more circumspect in their choice of agents for other countries. Rand had never yet met one in London who didn’t seem to shout his profession with all the reticence of a screeching peacock.

  Mr. Greene was no exception. Tall, angular, vaguely handsome—the sort who’d gone through college on the debating team and worked out Saturday afternoons in the school gym. He’d be married with three children, because that was the proper number to have these days, and his wife wouldn’t object to his work because on this level it was no more risky than selling insurance.

  “You’re Rand,” he said, holding out his hand. “They think very highly of your work in Washington.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that,” Rand said, not believing a word of it. The man obviously wanted a favor.

  “We’ve had an odd sort of report from the Scandinavian area. Washington thought that in the interests of time you might be able to give us some help at this end.”

  Rand smiled slightly and offered the man a cigarette. “Anything I can do…”

  “A man named Alfred Penny was killed two days ago near the Gulf of Finland. He was shot by a high-powered rifle from some distance away.”

  “Alfred Penny? I don’t know the name.”

  “He’s had many names—Glaz, Blanco, Marrigal, to name a few. He was a specialist, an expert in all sorts of electronic listening devices, telephone taps, things like that.”

  “An expert for whom—the Russians or our side?”

  Greene leaned back in his chair. “Neither side, surprisingly. He was a British subject, originally—which is one of the reasons we’re getting you into it—but for the past five years he’s worked for an organization called SPAD. Ever hear of them?”

  “Of course,” Rand replied. SPAD was a private intelligence organization headquartered in Paris and West Berlin, named after a popular French fighter plane of the First World War. Supposedly working for the West, it had been accused on occasion of supplying information to the highest bidder—East or West.

  “We don’t know who killed him, but we do know what he was up to out there. He was tapping into the hot line between Washington and Moscow.”

  “What!” Rand came forward in his chair. “Why in hell would he be doing that?”

  Greene shrugged. “We’re questioning SPAD about that right now. They claim his mission wasn’t authorized, but we’re not so certain.”

  Rand was frowning at the ceiling. “But what would he gain by tapping into the hot line? The thing is never used. It’s for the ultimate emergency. The day the hot line has to be used, people like Penny and the rest of us will be beyond caring.”

  “Are you familiar with its operation, Mr. Rand? The hot line is not a voice connection as so many people seem to belie
ve. It’s a teletype, actually, with a one-time tape system to encipher messages.”

  Rand nodded. The one-time system had been perfected in 1918 by an officer of the U.S. Army Signal Corps. It used a teletypewriter tape perforated with a patternless, nonrepetitive series of holes to add electrical pulses to the plaintext message. Decipherment was absolutely impossible unless the receiver had an identical tape at his end. After being used once, that section of tape was destroyed. Germany had used the system in the 1920s, and Russia in the 1930s, but the necessity for having a disposable tape as lengthy as the messages prevented its universal use, especially on battlefields. A few Russian agents like Rudolf Abel and the Krogers had used variations of the one-time system, and it was presently well-regarded by the United Nations, the International Monetary Fund, and a number of other groups. Since both the U.S. State Department and the Russian government were users, it was a natural selection for the hot line link.

  “So even if Penny tapped the line, he couldn’t decipher it,” Rand observed. “He’d be listening to a line that carried no messages, and he couldn’t have understood them if it had. So why did he try to do it?”

  Greene shrugged again. “I thought you might have some ideas, being the head of Double-C. Though actually that was only one reason for my visit. When they noticed something amiss with the line and went to investigate, they found Penny’s body. He had a list of names on him.”

  “Foolish!” Rand snorted.

  “Not so foolish. They were apparently a list of contacts. The list was hidden in the heel of his boot.”

  “Do people still do that sort of thing?” Rand marveled.

  “They do. Here’s the list.”

  He passed Rand a folded slip of paper. It was headed, London, and there followed three names: Geoffrey Crayon, Hal Whitehood, Leo Vandor.

  “Interesting,” Rand commented. “A list of contacts, you think?”

  “What else?”

  “Well, I can think of a number of things. For instance, perhaps Penny’s killer planted the list on his body.”

  “No chance. As near as we can tell from the footprints, the killer went nowhere near the body. We mainly wanted your help with these names—any chance they’re not what they seem? Of course Vandor is the Red spy awaiting trial, and Whitehood is the well-known movie star, but what about Crayon? The only one I know is in Washington Irving.”

  Rand smiled at the man. “I didn’t realize the C.I.A. was so literary. Oh, I doubt very much that this is the Geoffrey Crayon of The Sketch Book, despite the fact that the book first appeared in London. No, I rather think that this is Geoffrey Crayon, the contract bridge expert. He plays often in tournaments around London, and he writes a weekly column in the Express.”

  “Could any of these people be linked to an organization like SPAD?”

  “Well, Leo Vandor is a known agent. I suppose he’d be the most likely.”

  Greene frowned out the window, where the winter sun was making one of its too-brief appearances. “Since this is primarily a communications matter, and could possibly involve the use of cipher, we were wondering if you could talk to these three men—question them about Alfred Penny.”

  “I’d be glad to,” Rand replied. “But you don’t usually learn much from spies by formal questioning.”

  “You don’t learn much, but you just might force the hand of one of them.”

  “If there’s a hand to be forced,” Rand observed. “If the whole thing isn’t just a coverup for something bigger.”

  “What could be bigger than the hot line?”

  It was Rand’s turn to stare out the window. “I don’t know. I wish I did know sometimes what the other side’s thinking.”

  * * *

  —

  When Rand went to see Whitehood the following morning, he took Parkinson with him. Parkinson was the youngest and most promising of Rand’s half dozen assistants in Double-C—a sandy-haired cipher expert just three years out of Cambridge, who always called his superior “sir.”

  “Have you seen any of Whitehood’s films, Parkinson?” Rand asked while they waited in the studio’s reception room for the actor to appear.

  “Those spy things, sir. They’re really wild—wilder than the Bonds!”

  “Do you think he could possibly be living his role off the screen?”

  “I hope not, sir—not a woman in London would be safe!”

  When he finally appeared, Whitehood was brisk and bristling. He looked much like the press release photos which Rand had studied, except that the boyish smile was nowhere in evidence. “Make it fast,” he said. “I’m due back on the set.”

  Rand introduced them and said, “This matter concerns a man named Alfred Penny, who lived here in London for a number of years. Did you know him?”

  “Never heard the name.” The actor was impatient, restless in his chair. “Is that all?”

  “He died recently. Your name was found on the body.”

  “Perhaps he was a fan,” Whitehood said with an unconcerned shrug.

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “Well, I don’t know your Mr. Penny, and I really have no further time to spend with you.”

  “Just one more question,” Rand said, “and then we’ll let you go. Are you familiar with SPAD?”

  “Who?”

  “S-P-A-D.”

  “Airplane, wasn’t it?” the actor said, but Rand thought he caught a fleeting spark of something—fear?—in the man’s eyes.

  “I think that’s all for now,” Rand said, getting to his feet. “Thank you for seeing us.”

  “Always glad to help the government,” Whitehood said, and disappeared quickly through swinging doors.

  When they were outside, Parkinson asked, “What do you think, sir? Was he telling the truth?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know what Greene expected me to find.” Rand bit pensively at his lower lip for a moment and then took out a pack of American cigarettes. “Look, call ahead and see if we can talk with Leo Vandor. He had to be in court for his arraignment this morning, and they weren’t certain what time he’d be back in his cell.”

  Rand stood by the car, smoking his cigarette, marveling at the second straight day of winter sunshine. The temperature was still a frosty 35, but he thought it might warm up by afternoon.

  Parkinson came running from the corner phone booth a moment later, his face flushed with excitement. Rand’s heart skipped a beat and he threw away the cigarette. “What is it, Parkinson?”

  “Vandor, sir! He’s escaped—broke away from the guards while they were taking him to court!”

  * * *

  —

  Leo Vandor had been arrested just before Christmas for violating the Official Secrets Act. Although the actual details of his espionage had only been vaguely reported thus far in the public press, Rand knew the outline of the case quite well. Vandor was an East European who’d come to England ten years earlier as a refugee from the Russians. He’d lived a quiet life as the managing editor of a small-circulation poetry magazine, apparently acting as a Russian agent during all this time.

  His technique for receiving and passing on secrets was simplicity itself. Russian agents in the United States and other countries submitted poems to Vandor’s magazine—poems with intricate messages hidden in the text, by cipher or microdot. These poems were “rejected” by Vandor, who simply put them in return envelopes addressed to cover addresses behind the Iron Curtain. Even if a mail check was being maintained, it showed only that certain people in both the United States and Russia submitted manuscripts to the same poetry magazine in London.

  But the method had finally been detected, and somehow American and British counterintelligence agents had been tipped off. Vandor was arrested, and in his possession at the time they found a mass of figures that translated into the orbits of a number of supers
ecret American satellites.

  “And now he’s escaped,” Parkinson said.

  Rand had a rare twinge of uncertainty. It was hard to believe that Vandor’s escape was tied into the death of Penny, and yet…He got on the phone and spoke briefly with Hastings, arranging another meeting with Greene, the C.I.A. man. Then he rejoined Parkinson.

  “There’s a third name on that list,” he said grimly. “I think we’d better pay a fast visit to Mr. Geoffrey Crayon, the contract bridge expert.”

  Crayon lived high above the London streets in one of the tallest and newest of urban apartment buildings. There were two stone lions by the front door, but once inside everything was chrome and glass, including the silent elevator that lifted them toward the top-floor penthouse.

  Rand pushed the buzzer and waited. Presently a peephole opened in the massive oak door and a voice said, “Yes. State your business.”

  “I’m Rand, Department of Concealed Communications. Here’s my identification. We’d like a word with you, sir—that is, if you’re Geoffrey Crayon.”

  “I’m Crayon.”

  “Would you open the door, please?”

  “What’s it about?”

  “It’s a matter of national security.”

  “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  They stood waiting, and nothing happened. After a few moments Rand pushed the buzzer again. Still there was nothing. “Is there a back way out of here, Parkinson?”

  “Just those stairs by the elevator, I’d imagine, sir. He didn’t go down those.”

  “Think we can break down this door?”

  “It’s oak, sir.”

  Rand’s heart was beating faster. “I’m afraid something’s wrong.”

  “Maybe he’s getting dressed.”

  The elevator doors slid open and a uniformed bobby emerged. “What’s going on here?” he asked.

  Rand flashed his identification. “We’re trying to see Mr. Crayon, officer.”