Cold War Copa

by Phil Swann

  “Hello, Greg,” he said. “Long time, no see.”

  “Hello, Peter,” Skipper replied.

  I couldn’t see anything, but I was suddenly very cool, almost to the point of being cold, but that could’ve been due to being abruptly whisked out from under the hot desert sun. I no sooner said, “Clegg, I need—” than a hood was pulled over my head, and everything went black. Then, I was put in what I presumed to be the Cadillac and driven away. I didn’t know what happened to Skipper, but he wasn’t with me. Next thing I knew, I heard the mechanical sound of a chain-driven machine reverberating around me. I also had the sensation of going down. This lasted for several seconds during which time no one said anything to me. Once the descent stopped, the car door opened, and I was pulled out. My ushers, Square Head and Tonto I presumed, were not overly rough, but they were very decisive in where they wanted me to go. We traveled another minute or so on foot before I was seated in a chair and the hood covering my head was removed. It took a second for my eyes to adjust.

  The large open chamber looked to be some kind of control center built into the bowels of a huge underground cavern. The walls were natural rock, but the floor was definitely man-made, black, smooth, and polished so deeply you could see your reflection in it. I couldn’t see how high the ceiling was, but it was high. The whole area looked to be lit by some type of lighting instruments built into the rock walls—not unlike the theatrical lighting we use on stage at the Sands. There were at least two dozen or so men manning an array of what looked to be radar screens, or computer terminals, or something like that. Most of them wore regular clothes, but some were in uniform. If anybody was talking, I couldn’t hear them. The only sound I could make out was a steady electronic hum and the occasional beep, blip, or swish coming from the equipment. Basically, the whole scene looked like those images we see on television from NASA’s mission control in Houston. It was all very futuristic. I instantly amended my position on not being impressed. I was now sufficiently impressed.

  “So we meet again, Trip,” Clegg said, coming around from behind me. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”

  Skipper was beside him, Square Head and Tonto were on either side of me.

  “Yeah, I do. But right now, all I want is that record back.”

  “I know. We’ve actually been expecting you.”

  “You have?”

  “Ever since you left the market. We had a feeling you’d seek out ol’ Greg here again.”

  His use of the word again didn’t get by me. Neither did the look of utter disdain Skipper shot at him.

  “You two know each other?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Clegg replied. “We worked together back before—well, before Greg left.”

  Skipper said, “I was actually your boss.”

  “Yes, you were. And a good one too. It’s good to see you again, Greg.”

  “What’s going on, Peter?” Skipper asked. “Why didn’t you stop us from coming onto the base?”

  “Because we need you. Actually, we need Trip here. He’s got a great name, don’t you think, Greg?”

  “Need me for what?” I asked.

  “To tell us why the Soviets want that record so badly.”

  “I don’t know. I only know they have Betsy, and I have to give it to them or else.”

  “Yes, Greg told me they have Miss Beaurepaire. I’m very sorry.”

  I almost came out of the chair, and would have had Square Head not stopped me with a firm hand on my shoulder. “I don’t care if you’re sorry or not. I just need that record back. I’m running out of time. I only have until eight o’clock to get it to them. That’s little more than an hour from now. Give me the record, Clegg.”

  “It’s okay, Carson,” Clegg said to Square Head, who removed his hand from my shoulder and stepped back. “We can’t, Trip. Not until we know why the Soviets want it so badly. That’s why we need you. You’re going to help us answer that question.”

  “How?”

  “Come with me.”

  We all followed Clegg to an area on the other side of the large room. A record player was sitting on a table where my old friend Ray the grocer was plugging wires into the back of it.

  “Give it to him,” Clegg ordered.

  Ray stopped what he was doing and handed me the record.

  “Is it yours?” Clegg asked me.

  “If this is the one you took from my apartment, yeah, it’s my record.”

  Clegg smiled. “Would you look at it closely, please?”

  I removed the disc from its paper sleeve and examined it. “It’s my record.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. It’s a 78 rpm, OKeh Record. OKeh was the first label Armstrong recorded on back in 1928, so it’s kind of rare. I’ve had this recording for years.”

  Clegg took the record from me and handed it back to Ray. “We ready?”

  “In a minute, sir,” old Ray replied.

  Clegg sat down in a chair across from me. “Tell me, Trip, how did you realize this record was what they were after?”

  “I’m just that smart.”

  Clegg’s expression didn’t change. Neither did his stare.

  I relented. “I didn’t at first. I only figured it out when I heard the piano player at The Jam Jar introduce the song ‘Take the A Train’ as being written by Billy Strayhorn.”

  “How did that tip you off?”

  “When I dropped Ken off at that gas station a few nights ago, I told him I was going to The Jam Jar to sit in with Eighty-Eight Eddie. He asked me to play Louis Armstrong’s ‘Basin Street Blues.’ It’s one of the last things he said to me.”

  “So?”

  “Ken was a jazz aficionado. He knew his music. ‘Basin Street Blues’ was written by Spencer Williams, not Louis Armstrong. Ken never would have referred to it that way. Not unless, he really wanted me to play Louis Armstrong’s version of ‘Basin Street Blues.’ I realized he wasn’t asking me to play “Basin Street Blues,” he was asking me to play Louis Armstrong’s recording of ‘Basin Street Blues.’ That’s when I figured out that record must be what everybody was looking for. But I have no idea why.”

  Clegg nodded. “Very astute, Trip. Very astute, indeed. I’ve got to say, you’ve impressed a great number of people around here the last few days.”

  “Believe me, that hasn’t been my intention.”

  “We’re ready, sir,” Ray said.

  “Play it,” Clegg ordered.

  The sound came from speakers located somewhere above us and filled the entire room. From Earl Hines’ intro on the celesta, to Louis’ stellar solo on the cornet, the tune came through loud and clear—well, as loud and clear as a 78 rpm recording from 1928 can ever be. The song ended, and everybody looked at me.

  I shrugged. “Yeah, that’s the song.”

  “You didn’t hear anything strange? Nothing altered?” Clegg asked.

  “No,” I answered.

  Clegg dropped his head and let out a defeated sigh.

  “Except you guys could use a new stylus on your record player.”

  Clegg looked up. “What do you mean?”

  “The stylus, it must be worn out. Either that or you scratched up my record.”

  “I assure you, Trip,” Clegg said, “we’ve handle this record with kid gloves.”

  “And the stylus is brand new,” old Ray added.

  “What did you hear, Trip?” Skipper asked.

  “Halfway through Armstrong’s solo there’s a little skip. It’s not a big one, probably not noticeable to most, but I know that solo like my own name. It skips in the middle of it.”

  “Show us,” Clegg said, getting up and escorting me to the record player.

  “May I?” I asked.

  The man I knew as Ray looked at Clegg, who answered with a nod.

  I started the record spinning again, lifted the arm, and set it down half way through the track. I was proud at how close I actually came to dropping the needle at exactly the ri
ght spot.

  “There,” I said. “Did you hear that?”

  Clegg looked at Skipper, and then back at me. “No, play it again.”

  I did. As it came to the place where the skip was, I lifted my hand.

  Everyone leaned in.

  “There. Right there.”

  Ray put something over his head that can only be described as the largest, most extreme pair of bifocals I’d ever seen. He moved me to the side, switched on a light built into the glasses, and put his face almost completely down onto the turn table. He played the record again from the same place. When the skip happened, he immediately stopped the turn table from spinning and removed something from his shirt pocket that looked like a tiny set of tweezers.

  “Could someone hand me the glass dish on the bench?” he asked.

  Skipper was closest, so he retrieved the small dish and handed it to the man, who never looked up from the record.

  “What do you have, Ira?” Clegg asked, revealing Ray’s real name.

  “One moment,” he replied, looking like a surgeon cutting into his patient. A few seconds later, he sat up, and using the tweezers, placed something in the small glass dish.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Skipper asked.

  “It is,” the old man responded.

  “I’ve never seen one that small.”

  Clegg said, “We’ve heard the East Germans had developed one, but this is the first one we’ve actually seen.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “A microdot,” Clegg answered. “Actually a micro hair. A very small piece of film. In this instance, a very, very small piece of film.”

  The man named Ira chimed in, “It was laid into the groove of the record so perfectly it was utterly imperceptible to the naked eye. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

  “But how did it get on my record?” I asked.

  Clegg answered. “Tell me, Trip. Did your friend Ken have a record like this one?”

  “Yes, the exact same record. We used to laugh about how we were probably the only two guys at IU with an original OKeh Louis Armstrong recording. You mean he—”

  Clegg interrupted. “He must have made the swap at your apartment Sunday night before you got there.”

  “What’s on the film, Peter?” Skipper asked.

  Clegg answered, “Ira’s going to tell us for sure, but if it’s what we think it is, there are going to be some very happy campers back in DC. How long will it take you to extract the information, Ira?”

  “Give me a few minutes. I’ll run it through the enlarger and get you some printouts.”

  “Do it,” Clegg ordered.

  Ira hurried away.

  Clegg twisted his head and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “I need that record,” I said.

  “I know you do,” Clegg replied. “Let’s wait until Ira gets back. Then, I might be able to help you, and you might be able to help us.”

  “I thought I already did?”

  “You did, and thank you. We never would have caught that skip. But we might need you for one other little thing. The good news is, by you helping us, you’ll be helping Miss Beaurepaire too. Sound good to you?”

  “What are you up to, Peter?” Skipper asked.

  “All sorts of no good, Greg. You know how it is.”

  A couple of minutes later Ira returned. “I’m making the copies, but I thought you’d want to know, we got it. It’s the list.”

  Clegg relaxed his shoulders and let out a breath. “You know what to do.”

  Ira nodded. “I’ll make it look like it hasn’t been touched.”

  “Make sure of it, and hurry. Mr. Callaway here has a pressing engagement.”

  Ira grabbed the record player from the table and dashed off.

  “Answer Skipper,” I demanded. “What’s this about? I deserve to know.”

  Clegg chuckled. “Young man, you already know far more than you should, and don’t think we’re not going to have a chat about that later. Hell, you shouldn’t even be on this base, much less down here. Do you know the president of the United States hasn’t been where you are right now?”

  I decided it was time to cut to the chase. “Lydia was a Russian spy, wasn’t she? That’s why you killed her. The minute she got into your Cadillac at the Sands Saturday night she was a goner. Am I right?”

  Clegg shook his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked at Skipper and smiled. “You ever miss any of this, Greg?”

  “Never,” Skipper replied.

  Clegg looked at me and let out a resigned breath. “No, we did not kill Lydia. And no, she was not a Russian spy.”

  I stared at Clegg to see if I could tell if he was lying or not. I couldn’t. Before I could say anything else, he added, “But Ken Baldwin was.”

  I jerked backward. “That’s…that’s impossible. And ridiculous. Kenny Baldwin a Russian spy? Are you crazy? That’s the silliest thing I’ve—”

  “The man you knew as Ken Baldwin was in reality Yuri Kustov. A thirty-seven-year-old deep cover mole for the KGB with an advanced degree in aeronautical engineering.”

  “That’s not true. Ken wasn’t much older than me. We went to college together.”

  “All a part of his cover. Trust me, Trip, he was thirty-seven years old.”

  “But…how?”

  “It began over fifteen years ago. That’s when the Stasi recruited him right out of college. Yuri was East German by birth, brilliant, soft spoken, and because of his youthful appearance, along with the fact he had no living immediate family, it made him the perfect candidate for what the KGB had in mind.”

  “Which was?” I asked.

  “Infiltrating American’s mind trust.”

  “How?”

  “Well, first they sent him to spy school in East Berlin. The East Germans are the big boys on the block when it comes to international espionage. They’re very good at it. For two years they trained Yuri in English and all things American. They completely wiped out his Eastern European accent and all his commie ways of being. In essence, he became as American as you and me. After that, the rest was S.O.P. They gave him a new identity, a backstory, and planted him as a high school senior in Illinois where, of course, Ken Baldwin excelled.”

  “How do you know all this?” I asked.

  “Yuri Kustov was on our radar since his early days at Indiana University. You see, we’re not as dumb as we look, Trip. He excelled a little too much, and people noticed—people like us. When he graduated from Indiana with honors—turns out college is much easier when you already know all the answers to the questions—he was recruited by every aerospace company in the country. We made sure he landed a job out here with Lockheed working in their prestigious, and very top secret, Skunk Works division.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  Skipper interjected, “To feed him disinformation.”

  Clegg turned to Skipper and nodded in agreement.

  “Dis…what?” I asked.

  Skipper answered. “Lies. Phony intelligence. Made up stories.”

  “That’s right,” Clegg concurred. “We fed him bad plans, bad science, and completely fabricated results on projects that didn’t exist. It was perfect. We gave him bad intel, which he in turn passed on to his friends in the Kremlin. The Russians believed they had infiltrated America’s most top secret aircraft testing facility, the same facility that created the U2 spy plane they shot down a few years ago. We had them running in circles. Meanwhile, we could get on with the work we were really doing.”

  “Which is?”

  Clegg smiled. “Nice try.”

  I walked around the table with my hand on my forehead. I was totally beside myself. “How did this all start, Clegg? Why is Lydia dead? Why am I here right now, and why is Betsy…how did all this happen?”

  “You decided to start playing Cupid. That’s the simple answer.”

  “What?” I responded.

  “Lydia was not a Russian spy. She was, however, a
spy.”

  You’d think I would have become immune to earth-shaking revelations, but this one completely floored me. I attempted to say something but failed.

  Clegg continued, “Everything was going along quite nicely until Yuri, or Ken as you knew him, started dating a deep cover federal agent.”

  “Lydia was—”

  “Special Agent Veronica Simon. One of our best.”

  My mouth opened, but I had lost the ability to speak.

  Clegg went on, “Several years ago Hoover planted agents inside all the casinos in Las Vegas. To this day they work as bartenders, waitresses, black jack dealers, and yes, even showgirls. Their main objective is to get close to the mob and report what they learn. Agent Simon was the perfect plant, smart, charming, fearless, and beautiful. In three years, she delivered more intel on the families running Las Vegas than anyone ever had. But she was strictly domestic, nothing international. So, when you set Ken Baldwin up on a date with Lydia Starr, we all became a bit concerned.”

  “To say the least,” Skipper said, not hiding his snicker.

  “But then we realized we might have stumbled onto an opportunity.”

  “What kind of opportunity?” I asked.

  Skipper butted in again, “The opportunity to work both sides of the fence, right? You could continue delivering bad intel to the Soviets, while at the same time gather good intel on a bona fide KGB mole.”

  “Exactly. It was risky, but way too enticing to pass up. So, a plan was drawn up, Washington okayed it, and we were off to the races.”

  “So Ken killed Lydia after all,” I said. “He learned she was a government agent.”

  “No,” Clegg answered. “On the contrary, Yuri fell head over heels for Agent Simon. And that’s when things got really interesting.”

  “How?”

  “Three weeks ago Ken dropped a bomb. He told Lydia who he really was. After that, he began telling her everything he knew about the internal workings of the KGB’s spy network operating here in the US. Then, last Friday night at The Jam Jar, he told her something that really changed everything.”

  “What?”

  “That he had a get-out-of-jail-free card should he ever want to defect.”

  “And that was?”

  “A list of covert agents operating in North America. A list of nearly two dozen deep cover operatives, people just like him, trained in Berlin, just like him, who were sent here to spy. We don’t know how he compiled the names, but we knew if it were true, it would be the biggest and most valuable intelligence coup in the agency’s history. So did Agent Simon.”