Spy Who Read Latin: And Other Stories (10 page)

“At least give me an opportunity to—”

But Rand cut him off. “No! We’ll welcome you as a friend any time you come, but there’s to be no talk of business, and especially no talk of new assignments for me. In the years since I’ve retired I’ve been almost as busy as I was before!”

“Oh, that’s hardly the case, Rand,” Hastings protested. “You have your days free to work on your memoirs, and Leila teaches at the University. It’s a perfect existence, really, and if I show up once in six months to disrupt things a bit you should be thankful the British government still has such a high regard for your talents.”

“They used my talents for a good many years, but that’s over now. I don’t even do the cipher puzzles in the Sunday paper any more.”

“Still, those were great days with you in London and Taz in Moscow, during the depths of the Cold War.”

“The world changed,” Rand reminded him. “Now we have arms limitation treaties with the Russians.”

“Taz was certainly a worthy opponent.”

“He was,” Rand agreed. “He retired too, remember—but the Russians talked him into coming back for one more assignment. He ended up dead when he set off a bomb in a car.”

Hastings nodded. “Geneva, Switzerland, 1975. I remember it very well. You retired shortly after that.”

“Taz chose to die, and kill a couple of his Russian comrades, rather than kill me and some other people.” Rand stared into his brandy glass. “After that I decided it was time to get out of the business. And of course Leila helped with that decision.”

“What would you say if I told you Taz was still alive?”

“That’s impossible! I saw the body!”

“Nevertheless, he seems to have returned from the dead, if he was ever really among them.”

“Impossible!” Rand repeated, but with less assurance. Was anything really impossible in the shadowy underworld of espionage? “If he’s back from the dead what’s he been up to?”

“Killing people,” Hastings answered. “The Russians want our help in finding him.”

“Our help?”

“Exactly. And that’s why we need you, Rand. You knew him. He even showed some admiration for you in his later days. If anyone can find him and bring him out of hiding, it’s you.”

“The man is dead, Hastings!” Rand insisted.

“Just try for a moment accepting the fact that he might not be. That he’s active and causing trouble for both sides now. Would that be enough to tempt you back?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly.

“Would you at least meet with someone?”

“Who?” Rand asked.

“A Russian named Cornelius. At least that’s his code name. He’ll be on the Holyhead to Dublin ferry tomorrow morning.”

Rand thought about it for a long time. Finally he turned to Leila and asked, “Should I do it?”

“Will you be happy if you don’t?”

Rand took the early train from London to Holyhead and then strode across the station and a little outer courtyard to the adjoining ferry dock. He was just in time to board the last morning ferry to Dublin—a three-hour journey across the Irish Sea in a modern ship that carried cars as well as passengers and offered all the comforts of a night at the club.

Rand sat for a time in the plush armchair of the first-class section, until the ship was clear of the docks and well out to sea. Then he went for a casual stroll around the deck. Even in late June the breeze on the Irish Sea could be brisk and chilling, and he saw at once that he was the only passenger who’d ventured out. Next he checked the darkened room where television or movies could be viewed, but only a few children were in there. Two decks below, the large restaurant had a good noonday crowd, but no one that he sought.

Finally, in the bar and lounge on the deck above the restaurant, his search was rewarded. He purchased a beer from the Irish bartender and carried it over to one of the little round cocktail tables bolted to the floor. A man wearing a red plaid vest and a gray suit sat reading a copy of the latest John LeCarré novel. He glanced up as Rand asked, “Could I share this table?”

“Certainly, old chap.” The words were English, but the accent was not quite perfect. Rand knew he had found his man.

“Nice crossing today.”

“It is that,” the man agreed.

“How’s the book?”

“Oh, you know these spy things. Quite far-fetched.”

“I’d have thought differently. I knew a man once who was in the business.”

Rand’s table companion closed the book and glanced casually around the bar. No one was close enough to overhear their conversation. “You would be Rand?” he asked.

“Yes. And you’re Cornelius?”

“As good a name as any,” he replied. He was a tall slim man whose gaunt features reminded Rand of the villains in the old war movies. He looked, in truth, more German than Russian.

“You wanted to see me?”

“My superiors suggested you could help.” He dropped his gaze to the bulging briefcase that served Rand as an overnight bag.

Reading his thoughts, Rand said, “There is no recording device. I’ll open it if you want.”

“Not necessary. We must trust one another.”

Rand dropped his voice another notch, keeping his expression casual.

“Taz is dead. I saw the body myself,” he said firmly.

“In an explosion many things are possible. A last-minute substitution, for example. The body was badly burned?”

“Yes,” Rand admitted. “But what is your evidence that he’s alive?”

Cornelius stared at his drink. “Three of our best field agents have been killed during the past two months. Their throats were cut. The first lived long enough to write Taz’s name in Russian on his desktop at our embassy in Vienna. He used his own blood to do it.”

“Just
Taz
, nothing more?”

“Nothing more. After that Taz’s old Moscow office received a letter from him.”

Rand’s interest perked. “A letter?”

“Typewritten. Here’s a translation of it.”

Rand read the brief note:
The body in Vienna was only the first. The Tsar Network betrayed the cause of the Revolution and all its members must die. I have come back to do this and will not be stopped. Taz.

“What is the Tsar Network?” Rand asked.

He hesitated at first, as if weighing how much to tell. Then he said, “The Tsar Network operated in the early 1960s, using seven agents who were known to each other only by the names of the last seven Tsars of Imperial Russia. It operated in various European cities with the aim of gaining intelligence regarding NATO military strength. The network collapsed in 1965 when one of its key agents, Tsar Paul, was captured and killed by West German intelligence agents. We didn’t know how much Paul told before he died, so the network was immediately shut down and the surviving six agents shifted to other assignments.”

“I never heard Paul referred to as a Tsar,” said Rand, who knew something of Russian history.

“The term is interchangeable with Emperor. Most Russian rulers called themselves Emperor, though the final one, Nicholas II, preferred the older, more Russian, title of Tsar. In the network all seven agents used Tsar. There were Nicholas II, Alexander III, Alexander II, Nicholas I, Alexander I, Paul, and Catherine the Great.”

“A woman?”

“Yes. One woman and six men. With the death of Paul five men were left alive.”

“Who was the first man to have his throat slit?”

“Alexander II, in Vienna.”

“Tell me about him.”

“There is little to tell. He was an exceptional agent, especially in his command of the English language. He had a British mother and it was really his native tongue. They said back in Moscow he even thought in English. He was in deep cover with the NATO forces—a mole, to use LeCarré’s term.” He gestured toward the book on the table. “Personally, I thought he should have remained where he was, but when Paul was killed the people in Moscow panicked. The entire network was shut down and Alexander II was shifted to Vienna—under another designation, of course.”

“You said three agents had been killed.”

Cornelius nodded. “A few weeks after that letter arrived, Nicholas I died in Madrid. Again, the throat was cut.”

“Had he been warned of the letter from Taz?”

“Not directly. It was not taken too seriously at first. After Nicholas I died, of course, the others were warned. But it did no good. Alexander I was killed in Amsterdam last week.”

“Throat cut?”

“Yes. Exactly like the others.”

“Did the second or third victims live long enough to leave a message?”

“No.”

Rand leaned back in his chair. “Why does Moscow want my help? We’re still something like enemies, you know.”

Cornelius nodded. “I agree, but the decision was not mine to make. I am simply following instructions. The feeling seems to be that you knew Taz, were even friendly with him for a time. Friendly enemies of a sort. Moscow knows all too well how you managed to anticipate his movements on more than one occasion. They hope you can do it again. Three members of the Tsar Network are still alive. We want to keep them alive.”

“Maybe there’s another reason too,” Rand speculated. “Like Taz, I’m retired. I won’t feel obliged to report everything I learn to British Intelligence.” He paused a moment. “And British Intelligence won’t feel obliged to make an international incident out of it if you kill me after I find Taz.”

“No, no.” Cornelius insisted with a shake of his head. “You English always think of killing! You are still fighting the old war. Russia today is content to let time work on its side. I can assure you of your personal safety, once Taz is found.”

“Have there been any other letters since the first?”

“No letters, but there was a telephone call after the second killing. He phoned the man who had replaced him in Moscow.”

“Was it Taz’s voice?” For the first time Rand seriously considered the possibility that his old foe could be still alive.

“The man met Taz only once. He couldn’t be certain.”

“What did the message say?”

“That the Tsar Network had betrayed the Revolution.

“In what way?”

“Mr. Rand, a madman needs no reasons. It seems obvious that Taz is both alive and insane.”

Rand considered the courses open to him. “Three members of the Tsar Network remain alive. Is that correct?”

“Yes. Nicholas II, Alexander III, and Catherine the Great.”

“Where are they?”

“Nicholas is in Dublin at the moment. I am on my way to see him. We’re not certain just where Catherine is. She was in Paris, but she left there ten days ago after receiving our second warning.”

“And Alexander III?”

Cornelius bowed his head slightly. “He sits before you, Mr. Rand. I am Alexander III. Or I was, back in those days.”

“I see.”

“You can understand that I have a personal interest in finding Taz before he succeeds in killing the entire Tsar Network.”

“Indeed.”

“I hope you will come with me to meet Nicholas.”

“I’ll come,” Rand agreed quietly.

It was not a long drive from the ferry dock to downtown Dublin, and the sun was still high in the afternoon sky when their taxi crossed the River Liffey and drew up in front of the hotel on O’Connell Street. Cornelius paid the driver and said to Rand, “I will not be staying the night, but if you wish to remain for a day or so, this is a fine hotel.”

“Thanks. Where do we meet Nicholas?”

Cornelius hesitated again, reluctant to reveal more than was absolutely necessary. “He is a member of the Russian delegation here, employed at our embassy. We won’t be going there, though. I’ll phone and arrange a meeting elsewhere.”

The meeting came two hours later, in a Catholic church only a block from the hotel. “They never suspect Communists of meeting in a church,” Cornelius said with a chuckle. “It has served me well in many cities.”

Rand stood near the back of the church, watching a few people drift in for a visit following their day’s work. Some paused by a side altar to drop a coin in a meter and snap on one of the electric vigil lights that glowed in steady rows. A strange leap into the modern age, Rand thought, for a country and a church so deeply rooted in the traditional ways.

Presently Cornelius touched his elbow and went forward to intercept a stout man of medium height with horn-rimmed glasses and slicked-down blond hair. If Cornelius reminded Rand of the villain in an old Nazi film, the man with the code name of Nicholas II looked more like a prosperous American banker.

“Alexander,” he said, speaking softly. “It is good to see you again.” The name surprised Rand, until he remembered the members of the Tsar Network had known each other only by their code names.

“My old friend, I come in a time of great peril for both of us. You have been warned about Taz?”

“Of course.”

“This man is Rand, late of British Intelligence.” He added quickly, “Do not fear! He’s here to help us. He knew Taz and in fact was present at the explosion that apparently killed him.”

Nicholas shifted nervously, glancing about the church. “Taz telephoned me.”

“When?” Rand asked.

“Just last evening, at my embassy quarters. He offered to let me live if I would reveal the present locations of Catherine and Alexander. I could not, of course. I did not know them.”

“So he threatened to kill you?” Rand studied the man as he spoke, looking for anything unusual. But Nicholas seemed only to be a badly frightened bureaucrat.

“I told him I knew very little about the Tsar Network. I told him I was not worth killing.”

“Had you ever spoken to Taz before?”

“No.”

Rand turned back to Cornelius. “What was Taz’s connection with the Tsar Network?”

“No direct connection, although of course his work with the communications section made him aware of our activities.”

“What were those activities?” Rand wanted to know. “What was it that Taz could possibly construe as harming the Revolution?”

“Nothing,” Nicholas insisted. “Absolutely nothing!”

Cornelius glanced at his watch. “I must catch the last ferry back to Holyhead. Will you be staying, Mr. Rand?”

“If Taz phoned here last night he could be very close. I’ll stay, at least for a day or so.”

“Very well.”