Spy and the Thief (9 page)

The house phone wakened him a few minutes past six. It was Peter, down in the dining room, ready for dinner. “I’ll be right there,” Rand told him, brushing the cobwebs from his eyes.

But when he joined Peter, the older man was not alone. A tall blonde girl with long hair and a short skirt sat with him at the bar. She wore heavy eye makeup and pale lipstick, and she held out her hand as he approached. “Hi! You’re Mr. Rand?”

“Yes …?”

Peter Smith cleared his throat. “This is Echo Rogers, sir. She’s a friend of George Sine.”

Rand cursed under his breath. What was this fool up to? “Pleased to meet you.”

“I thought we might ask her a few questions over dinner.”

Rand grunted. They found a table, and as the meal progressed the blonde girl proved quite willing to talk. She showed obvious, intelligence and not a little charm. “They talked to me from Washington, you know, when they did the first security investigation on George. But he got a clean bill. He’s not a bad man.”

Peter sipped his wine. “The divorce?”

“His wife drank, had other problems. She lives in California now. I met George about a year ago at a party in East Orange. He’s a nice guy, a really nice-guy.”

“Do you work around here?”

She nodded and brushed the hair from her face with a gesture that Rand found completely feminine. “I’m a copywriter for a small ad agency in Jersey City.”

Peter Smith pushed on. “Miss Rogers—”

“Call me Echo. Everyone does.”

Peter cleared his throat. “There are a couple of other names we have—friends of Mr. Sine. I was wondering if you knew them. There’s a Tom Parker and someone named Craig. Waldo Craig.”

“Tom Parker used to work for George at the plant. He’s got a little electrical repair business of his own now. I don’t know any Waldo Craig.”

“Craig is apparently a third-rate nightclub comedian who appears in this area. He’s been linked to some suspicious groups.”

“I may have heard the name, but I’ve never met him.”

“Miss Rogers,” Rand interrupted, “I trust you realize the confidential nature of our questions. It would be best not to tell Mr. Sine of our interest right now. The whole thing is merely routine, you understand.”

“Sure,” she replied. “Confidential
and
routine.”

Dinner went reasonably well, and afterward they saw her to her car, a bright sporty job that was parked next to Peter’s drab rented one.

“What’s that?” Rand asked, seeing a little blue-and-red flag painted at the top of the door on the driver’s side.

“Signal flag,” she told them. “E for Echo, like at sea. You know, Alfa, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo …? That’s the new version.”

“Very clever.”

“I’m a clever gal.” She waved and pulled away, leaving them standing there. Rand had little doubt that she was on her way to report the whole conversation to George Sine.

“Let’s go in for a drink,” Peter said. “Damn cold out here.”

“Peter, I think we’d better have a serious talk about your activities.”

The older man fumbled for a cigarette. “That little flag on her car gave me a great idea, sir. The International Code of Signals uses combinations of three flags for its messages.”

“Peter—”

“Listen. The flags stand for words and phrases, and they’re all printed in a code book which every ship carries. But even without the flags, the letters themselves have meaning—they run all the way from AAA to ZZZ—or almost, anyway. I think they stop in the W’s somewhere. Some of them form words—nearly every three-letter word there is, in fact! For example, the combination FEZ means
document,
in addition to being the simple word
fez.
Perhaps we could use that in a cipher sometime.”

Rand’s patience was evaporating. “We’ll talk about it back in London. Right now I want to know why you disobeyed my instructions and went after the girl.”

“I was sorry about that; sir, but I just have a feeling about this one. Waldo Craig was once a Communist, and the other one, Parker, has a long arrest record. I want to check further on that airline too.”

“I can’t let you, Peter,” Rand said firmly. “You may already have gotten us into hot water. This isn’t London, you know.”

“You’re not going to do anything, sir?”

Rand sighed. “I’ll mention it to N.S.A. tomorrow. That’s all I can do. It’s their baby. Now let’s go in and get that drink.”

The National Security Agency occupied a three-story structure of concrete, glass, and steel, roughly in the shape of a squared-off A. It was located at Fort Meade, Maryland, halfway between Washington and Baltimore. Rand had visited the building just once before, in 1965, and now he was startled at the changes just a few years had brought. For one thing, a nine-story Operations Building Annex, under construction during his previous visit, was in full use now, dwarfing the original structure and bringing the total of NSA employees to about 14,000.

“We’re bigger than C.I.A. now,” the deputy director told Rand as he ushered him into a plush office with large tinted windows. “And with not half the headaches. The best publicity is no publicity, as our C.I.A. friends are finding out.”

Rand accepted a cigarette and lowered himself into an easy chair, wishing he had something like it back in London. “I’m most impressed,” he said truthfully.

“And how is your Lavender Machine functioning? Is it operational yet?”

“Not quite, sir. It only arrived a few days ago. My people are working on it, though.”

“You over here for long?”

“Just a couple of days,” Rand said. “I want to be back for Christmas.”

“Family over there?”

“Of a sort.”

The deputy director cleared his throat. “I don’t mind telling you that your name carries a lot of weight in the field. Some say Concealed Communications is the best organization of its sort in the world today. I understand you’ve even achieved a sort of contact with Taz in Moscow.”

“We’ve met.”

He shuffled some papers on his desk. “I know you understand my position, Mr. Rand. Before we get on to the official reason for your visit, I feel I must touch on a somewhat unpleasant subject. A report that reached me this morning seems to indicate that you’ve been conducting some sort of investigation in New Jersey.”

“Hardly an investigation,” Rand said, silently cursing Peter Smith. “One of my men was concerned about security on the Lavender Machine. You understand.”

“Well, frankly, I don’t. Your man Peter Smith was down here asking questions about George Sine, the Lavender project manager. Do you have reason to suspect Sine of something?”

Rand told him of Peter’s suspicions and the crumpled carbon paper. “In itself it’s nothing, of course.”

The deputy director stroked his chin. “Sine himself seems clean, but I will admit his file shows he has some odd associations. One is a nightclub comic named Waldo Craig who’s been everything from a Communist to a Bircher—he seems to change parties annually. Still, you fellows are overstepping yourselves, you know.”

“I realize that, sir.”

“Just a friendly word. Keep your man in line. We don’t want any bad publicity.”

Rand nodded and they went on to other matters. It hadn’t been half so bad as he’d expected.

Peter Smith was on the telephone to Rand’s Washington hotel room that evening even before Rand had a chance to eat. “I know what you’re going to say, sir, but this time I have evidence. I’m with this man Parker who used to work for Sine. There were
two
Lavender Machines signed out for shipment this week.”

Rand was remembering the warning words of the deputy director. “Where are you, Peter?”

“Just outside a city called Wilmington, in Delaware. We’re at a restaurant near the Delaware Memorial Bridge.”

Rand jotted down the directions. “I’ll find it. Stay there, Peter, and don’t talk to anyone.”

He’d driven the route to Washington early that morning via the Jersey Turnpike and the Kennedy Memorial Highway, and now, heading back in the early evening, he made good time. In less than an hour he was sitting opposite Peter and a large hairy man who was Tom Parker.

“I asked Tom to check on a few things at the plant,” Peter explained. “Tell him what you learned, Tom.”

Parker was open and friendly—perhaps too much so. Rand couldn’t help thinking he was too good to be true. “I used to work there, see—with Mr. Sine. He took me on after I had some trouble with the police. I don’t work there anymore, but I still know the guys in shipping, and I stop by to shoot the breeze a couple times a month—for old times’ sake, you might say.”

“Tell him about today, Tom.”

“Well, Mr. Smith here phoned and offered me some money to find out about the Lavender shipment. It was simple enough to do, and I’m always ready to help the government.” Rand threw Peter a nasty look at those words. “Anyway, there were two Lavender Machines shipped out the other day; both to London. The same inspector signed for both of them.”

“Two machines?” Rand repeated. “Both to London?”

“That’s right.”

Rand studied the man carefully. “You’re a friend of George Sine?”

“I was. He had me fired, so I’m no friend of his anymore.”

Peter slipped the man some money and Parker left, obviously pleased that his job was over. He was probably telling the truth, Rand decided—at least, they would have to assume he was.

“Satisfied, sir?” Peter asked.

“No. Not with anything you’ve done today, I thought you realized the function of the department better than you do.”

“Our function is to intercept enemy communications and to safeguard our own, sir. That’s just what I’ve been doing by tracking down this second Lavender.”

“And where do you think the second one is?”

Peter Smith looked especially pleased with himself. “It was delivered by truck to an address in Wilmington, sir. Parker got that for me too.”

Rand was on his feet. “I’ll phone Washington.”

“Before you do, sir. Waldo Craig is appearing at a club in Wilmington.”

Rand sighed and said, “All right. Let’s go see him.”

It was a little club on a side street, the sort frequented by the not-quite-respectable elements of society. It reminded Rand of some of the places in Soho, back home, and he was not surprised when the waitresses appeared wearing brief costumes that barely covered their hips.

Waldo Craig was just finishing his act when they sat down. He was thin, bald, and vaguely old—like something left over from the silent movies. His jokes were blue, all in extremely bad taste without being in the least funny. Hardly anybody laughed. The customers were too busy talking and drinking to pay much attention, and the clinking of ice cubes drowned out the scattering of applause when Craig had finished.

But he seemed pleased to have someone buy him a drink, and he joined their table without hesitation. “How’d you like the show? Little slow tonight—crowd’s not much. Always slow the week before Christmas—everybody busy shopping.”

“George Sine,” Peter said.

“George? Haven’t seen him in nearly a year. How’s he doing? I called him a Commie one night at a party, and he never forgave me, I guess.”

“He’s he a Commie?” Rand asked.

“Who knows? I was myself once, before I saw the light, and he was a heck of a lot friendlier then. I still do business with his company, though.” As if reminded of something, he glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to hop. This was my last night here. I’m flying to Miami tomorrow for a week at the Beaches. Big-time stuff, I’m on the bill with Sammy Davis, Junior.”

“You can’t tell us any more about Sine, then?” Peter was pleading.

“Not a thing, chum. Ask his girl friend. Her name’s Echo something.”

Then he was gone, and they were left at their table. “All right,” Rand said, making a sudden decision. “You head for Washington and get our friends at N.S.A. They have to be in on this, or you and I could be in big trouble. I’m driving back to Sine’s plant, where I can catch him first thing in-the morning. If there is a Lavender Machine loose somewhere, we have to locate it before it leaves the country.”

The sun was shining when Rand drove into the company parking lot the following morning. He had become quite expert at right-hand American driving these last few days, and was even beginning to enjoy it. London would be something of a shock after this.

“Well! Rand again!” George Sine said, rising from behind his desk. “I thought you were in Washington.”

“I came back.”

“What can I do for you? It’s something of a busy morning.”

“It’s about the Lavender Machine,” Rand told him. “We have reason to believe—”

Sine’s secretary interrupted at that moment. “Pardon me, Mr. Rand, but there’s a call for you from Washington. They say it’s an emergency.”

Rand took the call in the outer office. He recognized the deputy director’s voice at once. “We had a devil of a time finding you, Rand.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“Your man Peter Smith. He was murdered about two this morning in Wilmington, Delaware.”

Rand put down the phone. He felt suddenly sick.

The deputy director of N.S.A. had personally taken charge of the investigation. By late that afternoon he was installed in a suite of rooms at the motel where Rand and Peter had stayed the first night. There were others from Washington too, moving with a quiet precision that Rand had to admire.

“Tell it to me again, if you please,” the man from N.S.A. asked Rand.

“No, I think it’s my turn to ask a few things. Peter worked for me. I don’t even know where you found the body.”

“Along a highway near the airport. He’d been shot twice and apparently dumped from a car. Funny thing—he had a little piece of paper crumpled in his pocket with just one word on it.”

Rand was suddenly alert. “A word? What word?”

“Here it is.
Joke.
Just the word
joke
and nothing else. Was he in the habit of jotting down jokes he heard?”

“No.” Rand thought about it. “We met a comedian, Waldo Craig, earlier in the evening, but none of his jokes was worth jotting down.”

“Could he have been trying to tell you something, Rand? Could he have written this when he knew he was going to die?”