The Big Book of Espionage

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

  “That so? Well, you’d better come downstairs with me, then. Mr. Crayon just leaped to his death from the penthouse terrace.”

  * * *

  —

  It was after dark, but Rand was still in his little office overlooking the Thames, sitting with a cold cup of coffee and a copy of the late evening paper. The story had made a stop-press box on page one, beneath a headline which read: Bridge Expert Dies Clutching Ten of Clubs.

  Rand tossed the paper aside as the C.I.A. man entered the office. “You’ve had a busy day,” Greene said, sitting in the same chair he’d occupied before.

  “Yes, I have. I was planning to see three people. The actor knew nothing, the spy escaped from custody, and the bridge expert committed suicide. I’d say I scored an absolute zero.”

  “No, no, not at all. At least you started things moving. What about Crayon? Any chance he was murdered?”

  Rand shook his head. “None whatsoever. He thought we were coming to arrest him and he took the quickest way out. But what interests me is that on the way to his death he paused long enough to go through a deck of cards and select a ten of clubs to clutch in his hand.”

  “Interesting,” Greene admitted. “Any idea why?”

  “A message of some sort. But what? And to whom?”

  The C.I.A. man shifted in his chair. “I have someone who may be able to help us there. We’re holding a woman who was Alfred Penny’s mistress. Want to see her?”

  Rand hesitated, but only for a moment. He had the feeling he was already into this thing more deeply than he should be, more deeply than his official position called for. Still, something was afoot, and it might be crucial.

  “All right,” he agreed. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  —

  Her name was Marsha Mills, and she might have been a fashion model in her sleek miniskirt that seemed all wavy lines and garish colors; the sleeveless style of her blouse revealed a bruised right shoulder. Rand hadn’t believed that girls really dressed like that, even in London. He’d preferred to view the entire thing as some wishful fantasy on the part of the fashion industry.

  But here was one in the flesh, who sat with crossed knees, was nonchalantly smoking a cigarette, and telling them she was a schoolteacher.

  “A progressive girls’ school, you know.”

  “Of course,” Rand said.

  “And I can’t understand why this man—” a motion toward Greene, “should hold me here. Am I under arrest or something?”

  The place was a little office on Lower Thames Street, not far from the Billingsgate Market, in an area of the city hardly expected to harbor the London headquarters of the C.I.A. Greene was present, and so was another man who didn’t speak. They were obviously waiting for Marsha Mills to start talking, and she knew it.

  “You’re not under arrest,” Greene told her. “We just want you to tell us about Alfred Penny.”

  “I haven’t seen him in months.”

  The C.I.A. man smiled. “Correction. You flew to Finland with him just last week. And when he was killed a few days ago you were registered at the New Helsinki Hotel as Mrs. Alfred Penny. Does that refresh your memory?”

  She stubbed out her cigarette and avoided their eyes. “What do you want to know? Can we work out a deal?”

  “Maybe. Tell us why he went there,” Greene prodded.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was it a mission for SPAD?”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t think you’re really trying, Miss Mills. You can end up in a lot of trouble, you know.”

  She seemed to decide then. “All right, I’ll give it to you straight, if you’ll just let me go. A deal?”

  “A deal.”

  “Alfred was one of the top men in SPAD—I don’t have to tell you about them. He had access to more inside information about double agents than many of you people. A while back, he decided to strike out on his own. He had some big scheme that involved the flight to Finland and then contacting three men in London.”

  Rand was now interested. “Who were the three men?” he asked.

  “I don’t know their names. One was Russian, one British, and the third was a SPAD man. Alfred was going to offer them something, and make a huge amount of money.”

  “You mean he would sell something to the highest bidder?”

  “I don’t know the details.”

  “Did he tell anyone else he was going to Finland?”

  “No. No one. I’m sure of that.”

  Greene took Rand aside and asked, “What do you think?”

  “She was much too willing to talk. But you can’t hold her. I suggest releasing her and watching where she goes. It just might prove interesting.”

  “All right,” the American agreed.

  They left the little office after Greene had given quick instructions to the other man. In the car back to Rand’s building Greene said, “At least it tells us something, since we have those three names. We know Vandor is the Russian, and Crayon couldn’t have been the British agent or he wouldn’t have killed himself when you came to question him.”

  Rand agreed. “So Crayon was the man from SPAD, and that leaves Whitehood as our own man. I’ll check for confirmation.”

  “It doesn’t explain why Crayon killed himself clutching a playing card.”

  “I have an idea about that,” Rand said.

  “A code of some sort?”

  “More in the nature of a dying message, I think. An improvised code.”

  “Directed to SPAD?”

  “Possibly,” Rand said. But the whole thing bothered him. There were too many pieces in the puzzle—three separate espionage organizations, a murder, a suicide, an escape, a dying message. Too many pieces.

  Back in his office, Rand tried unsuccessfully to reach Hastings in Internal Security. Finally he coded a quick message that read: Urgent know if Whitehood is our own man. He sealed it in an envelope and gave it to young Parkinson. “Find Hastings and get me a quick answer on this,” he said.

  “Where will you be, sir?”

  “I’m going back to see Whitehood again. He’s the only one of the three that’s left.”

  * * *

  —

  This time the actor seemed more friendly and willing to talk. He sat in a relaxed posture against a vivid green sofa and said, “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Rand. I am sorry if I appeared a bit brisk earlier. We were filming, you know. I’m always more relaxed here in my apartment.”

  Rand gave him a smile, trying to match the open friendliness. “It’s about Alfred Penny again, I’m afraid. Since I saw you last, there’ve been some rather startling developments. A Russian spy named Vandor has escaped from custody; and a man named Crayon has committed suicide.”

  “Should I know either of them?” he asked blandly.

  “Their names were with yours on Alfred Penny’s body.”

  “Oh?”

  Rand decided to wait no longer. “Look, Whitehood, I have reason to believe we’re on the same side in this thing. I’ve asked for official confirmation that you’re one of us. So let’s not beat about the bush.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “That’s more like it.” Rand paused, then hurried on, feeling more sure of himself. “The man named Crayon died clutching a playing card—ten of clubs. Mean anything to you?”

  The actor shrugged. “In some fortunetelling systems it means gambling. Perhaps this Crayon frequented the gambling clubs around London.”

  “A possibility,” Rand agreed. And one he hadn’t thought of. “But I look at it this way. Crayon wasn’t just anybody—he was a well-known contract bridge expert. In his final moment of life, if he had to get a message to his people—to SPAD, for instance—he would realize that a playing card clutched in his hand would certainl
y make news. As it happened, the papers headlined the fact. Somewhere, someone noted that fact and read the message.”

  The telephone buzzed and Whitehood answered it. He listened for a moment, then passed it to Rand. “It’s for you.”

  “Rand here.”

  “This is Parkinson, sir. I have the reply from Hastings.”

  “Good. You can give it to me clear, but no names.”

  “Hastings says he’s not one of us, sir.”

  “What?” Rand wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

  “He’s not ours, sir. They think he’s SPAD.”

  Rand hung up the phone and turned to face the pistol held firmly in Whitehood’s hand.

  * * *

  —

  “You want to hear about it?” Whitehood asked. “All right, I’ll tell you the whole thing.” He smiled slightly. “Before I kill you, that is.”

  “You’re SPAD, of course.”

  “Of course. I was Penny’s partner until he got this crazy scheme and struck out on his own.”

  “Then Crayon was the Russian. And Vandor—”

  “Vandor is a British double agent. He was allowed to escape. Penny and I uncovered the fact quite by accident. It was Vandor himself who tipped off the British to raid his own office and find the information on the American space satellites. And that of course is the key to the whole filthy business.”

  “How?”

  “The Americans have launched several satellites from Vandenberg Air Force Base in California. These satellites, in the Discoverer, Samos, Midas, and Vela Hotel series, are designed to detect nuclear explosions and rocket launches. The satellite launches are usually reported without detail, in the public press, but the exact mission of each satellite is highly classified.”

  “So?”

  “Last year the Americans launched a new satellite with a superior television eye. It can detect anything on the ground even through clouds. The Russians have obtained the orbits of all current satellites, but they do not know which one carries the powerful new lens.”

  “What good would it do if they did know?”

  “They could move or hide the secret equipment when they know that particular satellite is passing overhead. Because of the rotation of the earth, it passes over the same spot only twice a month.”

  “So they needed to know—what?”

  “A date, only a date. The date the satellite was launched by the Americans. When they know which one it is, they will then know its orbits.”

  “The information was sent to Vandor?”

  “Yes, but of course he was a British agent. Unfortunately, it was also sent to Geoffrey Crayon of SPAD—I believe it was passed to him during a bridge game.”

  “So the ten of clubs must stand for a date. The tenth of some month?”

  “Whatever it is, the Russians have it by now.”

  “If they correctly read the message of the card.”

  Whitehood steadied the pistol in his hand. “I’ll let the Russians worry about that. I’ve talked too much already.”

  “Why do you think you have to kill me?”

  “Because I’m taking over where Penny left off. I might even take over with his mistress, too. I can’t have you or the C.I.A. holding me in London while you try to solve this satellite thing.”

  “Did you kill Penny?”

  “Of course not. But since he’s dead, I can’t let the chance to get all that money go to waste. Goodbye, Mr. Rand.” And his finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Wait! At least you can tell me what Penny was up to out there. Why was he tapping the hot line?”

  Whitehood smiled. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “No.”

  “He wasn’t going to intercept messages. He was going to send his own. He was going to use the hot line as an exclusive espionage reporting service directly to the heads of state in Washington or Moscow—whichever would pay more. With his contacts from SPAD he would have a foolproof system—no middlemen, no chance of the messages going astray.”

  “That’s fantastic! No government would agree to it.”

  “More fantastic than satellites in the sky? More fantastic than double agents like Vandor? I think not, Mr. Rand. In fact, I am going to try it myself.”

  It was then that young Parkinson came crashing through the window behind Whitehood. He landed on the spy’s back and toppled him to the floor just as the gun exploded. Then, gasping, bleeding from glass cuts, he looked up and said, “I thought you might need some help, sir.”

  * * *

  —

  Just before dawn the next morning Rand found himself shaking hands with Leo Vandor at a Thames River dock. The C.I.A. man was there, too, and Hastings from Internal Security. Vandor was a big man who looked exactly like his pictures.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Rand,” he said. “Even the Russians speak highly of you.”

  “I’m the one who should be pleased,” Rand said. “You’re slipping back behind the Curtain?”

  “Of course. That is my job.”

  “If SPAD knows you’re on our side, the Russians might know it too.”

  The tall man only shrugged. “That is the chance I have always taken.”

  Greene shifted his feet. “We must know if the Russians correctly read the message of the playing card. If so, the satellite with the special lens is useless.”

  Vandor smiled slightly. “I understand Mr. Rand has deduced the card’s meaning.”

  Rand nodded absently. He’d explained it all a half dozen times already that night. “The date of a satellite launching last year from Vandenberg Air Force Base. Well, it’s doubtful if they ever launch more than one satellite a week, so all Crayon really had to convey was the week that particular satellite went up. Now, there’s one thing a deck of cards has in common with the calendar year—52 cards, 52 weeks. And in contract bridge the 52 cards have a specific rank—four suits, the highest spades, the lowest clubs. In order of rank you start with the ace of spades and go down to the two; then the same with hearts, diamonds, and clubs in that order. The ace of spades, therefore, is card number one in the deck, making the two of clubs card number 52.”

  “Making the ten of clubs card number 44,” Greene said.

  Rand nodded. “Last year, the 44th week was the week of October 30th. And that’s when the special satellite went up.”

  “Do you think the Russians got the message?”

  “If I figured it out, I’m sure they did too,” Rand said.

  Vandor shook hands once more. “My launch is waiting. I must say goodbye.”

  Rand watched him go, thinking that he might be seeing the last of a very brave man. Then, as he went back through the dawn mist to the warmth of the waiting car, he heard Greene say, “We still don’t know who killed Alfred Penny at the beginning of this whole affair. Was it SPAD or the Russians or who?”

  Rand settled back in the seat as the car started. “I doubt if any of them would have bothered. Why kill a man bent on such a foolish mission? Besides, no one knew he was there.”

  “But someone did kill him!” Greene insisted.

  “I think it’s out of our territory,” Rand said. “I think the motive was private rather than political. It’s no sort of evidence, but you might have noticed that Marsha Mills had a bruised right shoulder—the kind of bruise the recoil of a high-powered rifle might leave. She was in Helsinki with him, and it wouldn’t be the first time a woman killed her lover.”

  Greene’s mouth dropped open. “I never thought of that.”

  Rand smiled and closed his eyes. It had been a long day, and a long night.

  AFFAIR IN WARSAW

  ROBERT ROGERS

  LITTLE COULD BE DISCOVERED about Robert Rogers. In addition to “Affair in Warsaw,” the only published work to come from his pen appears to be a
nonfiction article, “The Undeclared War in Guatemala,” written in collaboration with Ted Yates, for the June 18, 1966, issue of The Saturday Evening Post.

  It is unfortunate that Rogers either stopped writing or stopped being published as his lone work of fiction is a first-rate Cold War thriller with well-drawn characters in the American marine and the lovely Polish girl with whom he falls in love.

  “Affair in Warsaw” was originally published in the May 1962 issue of Argosy.

  AFFAIR IN WARSAW

  ROBERT ROGERS

  LIKE ALL THE ONCE-GAY capitals of eastern Europe, Warsaw after midnight becomes a ghost town, where the silence is broken only by the frigid winds whistling down from the Baltic and the muffled tread of police patrols circulating endlessly through the snow-blanketed streets.

  Standing in the darkness of the tiny, one-room apartment, Ray Claffey drew deeply on his cigarette and shivered. He was clad only in a pajama shirt, a far cry from the knife-creased uniform he wore during the day as captain in command at the Marine Guard detachment at the United States Embassy. Wiping the condensation from the window pane, he peered at the street below. The wind dragged a tattered newspaper through the patch of snow illuminated by the single street lamp. Otherwise, the street was empty.

  Claffey smiled grimly, thinking of the frustration his Polish “tail” would be feeling at being shaken again. It was common knowledge that every member of the embassy staff was shadowed by a Polish agent, or tail. When Claffey had first arrived in Warsaw three years before, he had found the whole business highly entertaining. He enjoyed leading the agents on long, aimless walks through rain and sleet and blizzards. Then, as he grew familiar with the city, it became a contest. In civilian clothes, he would duck through department stores, in and out of taxis, timing himself as to how long it took to lose his pursuers. Despite his six-foot frame, Claffey was agile and smart. Inside a year, he could shake all but the most expert shadowers within a quarter of an hour. It was an amusing game he played to break the monotony of life within a hostile state. At least, it had been nothing but a game until he met Katrina. Since then, it had become a deadly serious business.