The Kremlin Letter (2 page)

“First of all, agree to give up your commission in the Navy,” the man said apathetically.

“Then what?”

“Then I'll tell you what we have in store for you.”

“You mean
after
I've agreed to do it?”

“Come now, Commander; originally we were going to take away your citizenship as well.”

“No deal.”

“Whatever you say,” the man said without concern. “The train stops in about ten minutes. You can get off then and your commission will be restored. They told you about the quarantine, of course?”

“What quarantine?”

“You'll be detained for at least six months.”

“For what?” Rone asked indignantly.

“Why, for this meeting, what else? Security in matters like this is slightly sticky,”

Rone stood glowering at the man.

“You've probably made a wise choice. There are always certain risks involved in these projects—you'll be much safer back in the Navy.”

Rone remained standing near the door. He could feel himself flush.

“All right,” he heard himself saying, “when do I begin?”

“Read these.” The man shoved a thin manila folder along the seat. Then he yawned and took off his tinted glasses.

“Shall I read it standing up or can I sit down?” Rone asked casually.

“You can read it standing on your head if it helps,” the man replied indifferently. “Just read it.” He turned and stared out the window.

Rone sat down and looked at the folder. On the outside was printed “The Highwayman.”

“I've already read it,” he said.

“Read what?” said the man, still looking out the window.

“‘The Highwayman,'” answered Rone.

“The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the

purple moor
,

And the highwayman came riding
—

Riding
—
riding
—

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.”

The man turned slowly toward Rone. He had a square bronzed face with an aquiline nose. His silver-white hair was crew-cut. His eyes were green, coldly green. He studied Rone a moment or two, then turned back to the window.

Rone opened the folder and found himself looking at two teletyped messages pasted on the top and bottom of a sheet of paper. They appeared to be cablegrams, but he couldn't be sure since all four margins had been neatly trimmed to eliminate any identifying printing or marks. In addition, the address in the top left corner of each message had been covered with a typewritten identification sticker which listed the subject of the message, who sent it, who received it, and the exhibit or filing number. He began reading:

Rone noticed that neither the pages nor the messages had been stamped top secret, secret, or any other classification. He held his place and looked at the front of the folder. No restrictions were there, either, yet he felt instinctively that this was secret information or higher. He turned the page. This was the last sheet of paper in the files and only one message was pasted on it.

Rone closed the folder.

“What do you make of them?” asked the man, still not bothering to look at him.

“They're antiques,” answered Rone. “The type of communications that were used twenty, thirty years ago.”

“Never mind that. Do you understand them?”

“I think so.”

“Let's hear.”

Rone opened the folder and turned to the first page of messages. “Sweet Alice is American since she's the A&P. Uncle Morris is most likely British. He is not a member of the Common Market and these messages were sent in English. I can't tell yet whether they are intelligence agencies or individual agents.

“The Pepper Pot is an agent—or was an agent. I must assume a very good agent. Pepper is a condiment. Something that is used in every corner of the world. Therefore a pepper pot could be found in every corner of the world as well. No matter what the city, country or continent there is nothing unusual or suspicious about seeing a pepper pot. So we know this agent is just like that. He's at home anywhere and he goes anyplace without evoking suspicion. He would be one hell of a hard man to replace—and that's exactly what the problem is. He
must
be replaced. ‘The Pepper Pot is broken,' says the message. That means he is either injured, captured or dead. I assume he is dead.

“Uncle Morris, our friend from England, looks around for a replacement in his own country—but ‘the cupboard is bare.' So he contacts Sweet Alice to see what the A&P has on its shelves, or if America has an agent with the qualifications to replace him. But we don't have anyone, we have ‘only standard brands in stock.' Sweet Alice asks ‘what's new with the common market,' suggesting that England try finding someone in Europe.

“In the last message Uncle Morris says that he has already tried Europe and found nothing. He warns Sweet Alice that ‘the stew is cooling': If someone isn't found soon, either the United States or England, I'm not sure which, will probably compromise a very important case.”

“Is that all?” asked the man, still looking out the window.

“That's all I'm sure of,” replied Rone. “Uncle Morris asks Alice about poems. This undoubtedly means another approach to the subject, but I can't tell what.”

“Maybe this will help.” The man had turned long enough to push another few pages of messages toward Rone. Rone picked them up and began reading.

Rone saw that the “subject” had changed. He read the second message on the page.

Rone turned to the next and last page he had been handed. It contained only one message.

Rone thought for a moment. Then he went back over the preceding two pages.

The man had closed his eyes but when he heard Rone stir he said, “Let's hear these.”

“First of all, I made a slight mistake,” Rone began. “I assumed that the A&P represented all American agencies. I now see that it is only one. And I don't know which one it is. But the library is another agency. Uncle Morris first asked what the A&P had on its shelves, or what agents it had available, next he asked what the library or librarian had in the way of poems. So the library is the second agency and poems are a specific type of agent they must have. But I'm not sure what ‘poems' or these particular titles signify.”

“Try and figure it out.”

Rone paused. “The library probably carries novels, plays and nonfiction as well as poems. On that assumption I would say poems or poetry are specialized agents, individualists of some kind. And perhaps these agents are slightly outdated or old-fashioned—the titles mentioned are mostly standard, things that have been around a long time. Possibly agents out of the OSS days; maybe not. I'm not sure.”

“What would the names represent?”

“I'm not sure of that either,” Rone began. “Annabel Lee lives near the sea or ocean—in a kingdom by the sea. Maybe she's associated with naval affairs or possibly islands.”

“Or invasions?”

“Yes, maybe invasions,” Rone concurred. “J. Alfred Prufrock? Well, once again I'm not sure. Perhaps it has something to do with prostitutes?”

“Or possibly the author?”

Rone thought a moment. “An American living in England? Of course. An American agent who passes as an Englishman!”

“And Sam McGee?”

Rone began to recite:

“Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the

cotton blooms and blows
,

Why he left his home in the South to roam

'round the Pole, God only knows
.

“The poles—the North pole. The far north. Both Sam McGee and the author spent time in the Yukon or the far north. Our man operates or did operate in far northern areas. That's his specialty. But he couldn't speak the right language—the ‘third edition.' Each edition represents a certain strategic language. The language of a far northern country. A country that could be approached from, or borders on, the far north. That could be China or Manchuria—or Russia.”

Rone was suddenly aware that he spoke both Chinese and Russian.

For the first time since Charles Rone had started reading, the man turned and looked at him. “Let's get something to eat,” he said, rising.

2

Toothless Tony and Featherless Fred

Only single seats were available in the dining car. The man joined a table at the far end. Rone was placed with an elderly couple and their grandson.

Rone's lost commission and his session with the admiral were almost out of his mind. The three young men, who must still be wandering down a corridor somewhere or other, really didn't matter. It was the sunburned man and the cablegrams that held his attention. Everything he had seen today was a travesty of established intelligence procedure as he knew it. The last straw was the quiet man at the end of the dining car. And the messages which were not even classified.

When they had left the compartment the man had thrown the folders on the seat and left the door unlocked. Rone had pointed out that anyone could walk in and take them, and anything else for that matter. The man had simply answered, “Let them.” Rone volunteered to stay behind and guard the room. The man was quite emphatic about not eating alone, so off to the dining car both of them went. Rone had concluded that obviously the three young men were in the vicinity and would be watching the compartment.

The elderly couple, and the child left the table just as the train was reaching the Charlotte station. The waiter placed a cup and a silver coffeepot in front of Rone and left before he could ask for cream. His mind drifted back to the messages. He felt something was wrong, that he had overlooked something quite obvious. He looked out on the slow, swirling crowd of people on the floodlit platform below and saw his three escorts passing by with his Valpac. They weaved through the masses and disappeared into the station.

“Something wrong?”

He turned back to the table. The man was seated opposite him smoking a thin cigar and pouring a cup from Rone's coffeepot.

“My grip just got off the train.”

“I'll give you some of my stuff.”

“And now no one is guarding the room.”

“Have some coffee. Is there any cream?”

Rone didn't answer. He held his cup as the man poured in the tepid black fluid.

“You did very well with those messages. Better than I thought you would.”

“I spent some time in crypto.”

“I know.”

“Something still doesn't fit.”

“You got most of it.”

“But not all. Uncle Morris and Sweet Alice still don't make sense.”

“Why worry about it?”

“Why not?” asked Rone. The man was silent. “Something's wrong with Sweet Alice and Uncle Morris.”

“Let's get back to the room.” The man threw down some money and got up.

When they returned to the compartment the beds had been made up and Rone found the entire contents of his grip laid neatly out on the blankets. Beside them was a small suitcase which was obviously meant to replace his bag. He noticed that a black metal box which he hadn't seen before was sitting on the man's bunk.

“I think I know what it is that's wrong,” Rone suddenly said.