The Kremlin Letter (5 page)

“If an enemy agent with a lisp infiltrated one of our war plants, then we investigated every lisping man, woman and child in every sensitive position in every war plant, office or military base, and we filed them on IBM cards. If that agent showed up at an atomic plant where twenty-one other people had a lisp, we could just run the cards through the machine, eliminate twenty-one suspects, and shoot the twenty-second.”

“It's not quite that simple,” Rone interjected.

“Would you rather give the explanations?”

“Sorry,” Rone said, reminding himself to keep his mouth shut.

“On one hand,” Sweet Alice continued, “our specialized agents were working on specific cases, and on the other, our inexperienced men were gathering up every bit of information on everything and everybody and feeding them into the computers. The two limbs of the same tree grew and expanded—but the mechanized limb, as usual, grew much faster and began bending the tree in its direction. It was the intelligence, as Sturdevant called it, of cross-reference.”

Sweet Alice sat back and lit another cigar.

“But intelligence is based on both the individual agent and mechanical techniques,” Rone said cautiously. “Where does the conflict come in?”

“It's a matter of balance,” began Sweet Alice. “The mechanization required tremendous expansion in men, machines and techniques—and by the time we had developed our own individual agents, the whole complex of intelligence work was starting to turn toward cross-reference. I suppose the ultimate dream of a truly technological agent would be to run a security check on everyone in the world.”

“I still don't see the conflict,” insisted Rone.

“It came in the structure of the organizations,” Sweet Alice replied. “The mechanics of running one of these operations became increasingly more involved. There were no longer
twenty
operatives in the field, but maybe two or three
thousand
, at all levels of security. Certain protocol had to be established, and certain restrictions were bound to be placed on the agent to coordinate his activities with the rest. In the minds of many old-time agents, bureaucracy was replacing free will.”

“And Sturdevant couldn't function under such restrictions?” Rone asked.

Sweet Alice shook his head emphatically. “No, not at all. Just the opposite. No one functioned better under this new system than Sturdevant. He was the perfect example of the individual, brilliant agent who could utilize every modern technological advance. He thrived on it. But a great many other agents found the changes intolerable, and they in turn began the internal war. Sturdevant got involved later.”

“You're losing me.”

“Robert Sturdevant, for all his skill, was uncontrollable. He had no morality, no emotions and no conscience. He would use anything or do anything to get his results. To me, he was a brutal, sadistic assassin. During World War II we fought fire with fire—or at least that is what we told ourselves, to justify Sturdevant's activities. We needed him, and I thanked God he was fighting on our side, but at times I felt he would have been just as happy working for the Germans or Russians—at times I felt his only loyalty was to destruction. They used to say, ‘Point him in the direction of the enemy—then duck.' What brought matters to a head was that he began forming his own group, his own cadre. His attitude was infectious; where at the beginning there was only one depraved agent, by the end of the war there were thirty—we called them the SS.

“It was during the cold war that things became intolerable. By now American intelligence had grown so important that it had
diplomatic
implications. And in turn it had to bend to State Department policy. Sturdevant would not, or could not, change his ways. He was still the unpredictable cobra. He would act on the spur of the moment, policy or no.

“By the mid-fifties even the conflicting intelligence powers had established certain ground rules. Captured agents were quietly exchanged, certain methods of interrogation were forbidden, and so on. Sturdevant would have none of this. It was at about this time that the agencies began putting pressure on him, and it was also at this time that the old-time agents began their last-ditch stand. Sturdevant became the logical leader for the malcontents, and the battle began. Understand, he wasn't without strong support in Washington. A great many intelligence experts sided with him—and he came very close to winning. But he didn't. Once he had lost, every major agency turned its back on him and his group.

“Some of his political friends arranged an independent operation for him in the Far East, which would have continued his income and provided a pension, but he turned it down. Instead he and a few of his men became mercenaries in the Middle East for a while, but apparently his spirit had finally been beaten down—he disbanded his men and dropped out of sight. Then in 1954, Sturdevant was reported dead in Istanbul.”

“How did he die?”

“He committed suicide.” Sweet Alice was staring out the window again.

“And the Highwayman was with him through all of this?”

“To the end. Supposedly he handed him the gun and watched him blow his brains out. You've picked yourself some nice playmates.”

The conductor stuck his head in the door and announced that the train would be stopping in five minutes as requested. Rone quickly put his things in the grip. Sweet Alice opened one of the black suitcases and put in the file Rone had read the night before. He closed it and moved both suitcases to the door.

“You'll deliver these to the Highwayman,” he told him.

Rone and Sweet Alice went to the end of the car. The conductor opened the door and stood on the bottom step as the train began to lose speed.

As the train stopped, Rone jumped off. The conductor handed him down the two black suitcases and the grip and then whistled to the engineer. The train began to move.

Rone picked up the bags and turned toward the station. He had no idea what town or even state he was in.

4

The Highwayman

The sign hanging from the roof of the white wooden stationhouse read: Gethsemane, Ga., Pop. 487. He entered a spotlessly clean waiting room with a highly polished potbellied stove in the middle of the floor. The ticket window was shuttered, and a neatly printed cardboard sign announced: “Closed for funeral. Please buy tickets on train.” Rone crossed the room and stepped out onto a small porch.

At the far end of a large square with a bronze Civil War soldier in its center stood a small Greek Revival church. A small party of mourners stood in front of it. Rone watched as they turned to look at him. Then one of the women bent down and whispered something to a boy beside her. The child nodded obediently and ran into the church. A moment later he reappeared with an elderly man and pointed in Rone's direction. The man squinted, nodded and pulled the boy back inside the church with him.

Several seconds later the two reappeared with a third man in a black gown. Once again the boy pointed toward Rone. The man in the gown began running down the steps. Organ music rose from within the church. When the man reached the statue he stopped and waved his arms. Rone pointed to himself. The figure impatiently beckoned him forward. Rone picked up the suitcases and crossed the square. By the time he had reached the statue, the man had gone back into the church. The organ music stopped. There was a sound of scraping feet and coughing.

Rone passed the parked hearse, and pushed through the heavy wooden doors. He stood, baggage in hand, at the head of a single aisle which led down through the pews to a flower-decked casket resting several feet in front of the altar. Every head in the tiny church turned quietly toward him and gave a sympathetic nod.

“Will the bereaved please come forward.”

To the left of the altar Rone saw the deacon, standing in an elevated pulpit.

“Dear Nephew Charlie,” he said, looking directly at Rone, “your seat is waiting down front.”

Rone was motionless. Someone quietly stepped up behind him and said, “Just go right down and take your seat, Nephew Charlie. And for God's sake try to look sad.”

Rone still did not move.

“You can leave your luggage with Mr. Ward,” the deacon called out.

Rone hesitated. Reluctantly he handed the suitcases to the man behind him and started down through the gallery of upturned, saddened faces. He walked slowly to the coffin and cautiously peered in.

He had never seen the man lying peacefully inside. He stepped back to the first-row aisle, as the deacon had indicated, and uncomfortably took a seat. Throughout the service he kept looking at the face in the coffin. He listened attentively as the wispy silver-haired deacon spoke of “Uncle Raymond's” unblemished soul and sinless ways.

After what seemed an eternity the sermon ended. Rone rose on cue and placed the flowers which were handed to him beside the coffin. He leaned over the body just far enough to convince the congregation he had kissed his “uncle.” Gently, he closed the coffin. The deacon wept.

Organ music began and the mourners sang the final hymn. After the benediction Rone took his place with the other pallbearers and began the long lift up the aisle. As they cautiously moved through the door Mr. Ward moved up beside him. “Attaboy, Nephew Charlie,” he whispered, “attaboy—if you don't go to other people's funerals, they'll never come to yours.”

The casket was lifted onto the black-draped vehicle. It was unseasonably hot; they drove slowly under a scorching noon sun, and by the time they reached the open grave Rone and most of the mourners were covered with a mixture of dry, powdery clay and rising perspiration.

Rone stood opposite Mr. Ward as they began to lower Uncle Raymond into the earth. He estimated that Ward was between fifty and fifty-five. He had a broad face with a flat, rectangular forehead and a strong, square lantern jaw. His cheekbones were almost Indian, his thin firm lips betrayed a slight but perpetual grin. The nose was thick and flat; Rone guessed that it had been broken on more than one occasion. Bushy eyebrows pushed down on his gray deepset eyes.

After Uncle Raymond reached the bottom of his final resting place Ward stood upright. He was taller than Rone had first thought—although he walked with a slouch he was over six feet. He had a thick neck and his large, strong shoulders bulged under the dark clerical gown. Rone threw dust on the grave and turned to receive the condolences of the congregation.

“If they ask,” Ward whispered, “you can tell them you're from anywhere at all except Philadelphia. Uncle Raymond hated Philadelphia. He did a little time there.”

Don't think about anything, Rone had to remind himself as he inspected the two suitcases sitting beside his bed. He went down to the bathroom at the end of the hall and ran water into the black fourlegged iron tub. There was something about Ward that troubled him. Something about his face—about his features. He bathed, changed into clean Daks and a fresh white shirt, and went downstairs to the kitchen. Ward was bent over the sink washing.

“Well, Nephew Charlie,” he said to Rone, cupping water in his hand and splashing it on the back of his neck, “you did right well in church today.”

“Thanks,” answered Rone.

Ward straightened up, reached for a towel and began patting his face dry. “I suppose you're all hot and anxious to meet the Highwayman?”

“Whenever you say.”

“In a few minutes.” He turned toward Rone. His mouth flashed into a wide, toothy grin. “Bet for a minute you thought I was him. Well, I'm not.” Ward stretched into a faded denim shirt. “Now how about those questions? You look like a man steaming over with questions.”

“Who was Uncle Raymond?” It was the skin on Ward's face that bothered Rone. He tried not to stare.

“Good old Uncle Raymond was your predecessor—the Scooter on the shopping list. Sweet Alice told you about the shopping list, didn't he?”

“No.”

“Why that rascal.” Ward strained forward over the sink and peered into the mirror as he ran a coarse-toothed comb through his hair. “You're Uncle Raymond's back-up man, his replacement. Sort of like football. Each man on the first string has gotta have a substitute. He upped and died. So off the bench you come. Get the idea?”

“I think so,” answered Rone.

Ward turned from the sink. “Sorry we had to call you out so unexpected, but ole Uncle Raymond didn't give us much notice.”

“And the simplest way to get me into town was for the funeral?”

“Trot right up to the head of the class.” Ward stopped abruptly and grinned at Rone. “Nephew Charlie, you wouldn't take it unkindly if I sorta offered you little odds and ends of advice every now and again, would you?”

Rone hesitated. “No. Not at all.”

“Well, if you're going to look me over, don't be so damn obvious.”

“Look you over?” Rone was embarrassed. “What gives you that idea?”

“I've always gone in for the direct approach—so I'd say look me straight in the face and don't shift your eyes around so much. Course, there's always two schools of thought about things like this, but I'd say that when I'm sitting in a room with only one other fellow, and he's less than two feet away from me, and we're talking, and he ain't looking at me—when all those things happen—I might start wondering if something ain't wrong. There's nothing less suspicious than being obvious.”

“Thanks.”

“No trouble at all,” Ward said. “You see, Nephew Charlie, we may be going up against some pretty fancy fellows. Boys that know all the tricks and then some. Not that you're not as smart as they are, because you're a pretty slick one yourself—at least that's what your record shows.” Ward paused. “You're one of them computer men, ain't you?”

“I've done other things.”

“Nothing wrong with machines, I guess. A little cumbersome if you're traveling light, though.” Ward and Rone stared at one another for an exaggerated moment. “Anyway, getting back to the point. It's not a matter of you not being as smart as the opponents, 'cause you are, otherwise you wouldn't be with us—it's just that you might not be as fast.”