The Union Club Mysteries (18 page)

"That," said Griswold with great dignity, "is another story."

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"Have you noticed," said Baranov, looking up from his paper, "that everyone is sending a signal these days. No one
says
anything. Everything is a signal."

Jennings, who was sipping at a dry martini languidly, said, "It's part of the thriller mentality. We're flooded with tales of espionage and intrigue and it's just impossible for us to stoop to ordinary communication. Everything is code."

"Everything is devious," I said. "We live in a public-relations world and you don't want to spoil your image. Wallace started it in his first presidential campaign. He asked voters to 'send a signal' to Washington. In other words, if they voted for Wallace they would send an unspoken signal to the effect that they were for white supremacy without actually putting that vicious view into actual words."

Griswold, who had been unusually peaceful and who hadn't even been snoring, stared at us as though he hadn't ever slept in his life. He said, rather harshly, "Surely, some of you must live in the real world. Everything we say, everything we do, every twitch of a muscle, every slip of the tongue is a signal of some sort, and always has been. You don't suppose we communicate only by formal language, do you? The wise man must learn to interpret
everything !"

"By wise man," I said sardonically, "you mean, of course, yourself?"

"I certainly don't mean one of you three," said Griswold. "I remember a case in point—"

*
      
*
      
*

It was 1966 [said Griswold] and the Department was greatly harried. I was called in by the chief, which was itself a signal (speaking of signals) of the Department's desperation, for I was never used but as a last resort. They used to say I wasn't reliable, by which they meant that I disagreed with them half the time, which was bad; that I was vocal about it, which was worse; and that I usually proved right in the end, which was, of course, the worst.

But now the chief was willing to consult me. There was, at that time, as you may recall, a gathering crisis in the Middle East, and the United States had to be very careful in its support of Israel. We were not yet dependent on Middle Eastern oil, but we were just on the edge of becoming so.

And, apparently, one of our own operatives was not to be trusted. The Arab states had a window into the heart of our policy determination, and the Department knew that the Arabs had either placed one of their own agents in the Department, or had seduced one of ours. The Department even had the code name for the agent, whether placed or seduced. It was "Granite" and the Arabs used that word in English.

"How did you find that out?" I asked.

The chief smiled crookedly. "At the moment, that is not important for you to know. Take it as given."

A code name is, of course, useful in that the side using the agent knows with whom it is dealing, while the other side does not. The other side cannot translate code name into real name. As in any code, however, there are possibilities for breakage.

The chief said, "From the nature of the information that is known to have leaked, suspicion focuses on five of our agents. It would be helpful if we could have a reasonable idea as to which it is likely to be, and quickly, too. We could put all five out of action, of course, but in that case, we rid ourselves of four good agents, and if we keep it up for long, we cloud four careers unjustifiably and produce stains that may not wipe off."

"Do I know these agents?"

The chief looked thoughtful. "Perhaps not," he said. "As you know, you don't work very closely with us. So I will give you their names, and tell you something about each."

"Good thinking," I said sardonically. "It's hard to come to a decision on the basis of no information at all—even for me."

The chief flushed, but let it go. He said, "The first agent is Saul Stein. Father, Abraham Stein. Mother's maiden name, Sarah Levy. Wife's maiden name, Jessica Travers. Born, New York City, 1934. Attended New York University. Majored in Semitic studies. Speaks Arabic and Hebrew fluently."

I said, "I presume he's Jewish."

"Yes."

"Then doesn't it seem ridiculous to suppose he would be secretly working against Israel?"

"Not necessarily ridiculous," said the chief. "Not all Jews are Zionists. And how do we know he is Jewish, for that matter, when he may have carefully built up a false identity. It's something we're checking into, but we have to move carefully. Unjustified suspicion is exactly what we want to avoid, if we can."

"Is he circumcised?"

"Yes. So are Muslims. So are millions of Christians. He has a thorough knowledge of Judaism and is observant, but that might be part of the cover."

"His wife doesn't have an obviously Jewish name. Is she a Gentile?"

"By birth. She converted after marriage. It looks almost too good, when you stop to think of it."

I grunted noncommittally. "Who's next?"

"A woman, actually. Roberta Ann Mowery. Father, Jason Mowery, a two-term congressman back in the forties. Mother, Betty Benjamin. Husband, Daniel Domenico. Born, Fairfax, Virginia, 1938. Attended Rad-cliffe and majored in economics. Rather a forceful woman."

"Is her mother Jewish? Betty Benjamin?"

"Not
Jewish. Methodist. So is Miss Mowery."

"She uses her maiden name, does she?" "It's her legal name. She married on the condition she keep her own name."

"Has she any motive for treason? What kind of congressman was her father?"

"Absolutely clean record. Straight arrow. Still, Mowery is one of these women who's convinced there's prejudice against her for being a woman and that it's working against her at every step—"

"There is, isn't there?"

The chief cleared his throat. "Not as much as she thinks. It's really personal prejudice. She's harsh and overbearing and no one likes her, but she's a damned good agent, so we keep her on. Still, she could feel enough resentment to want to strike back. She could be that kind."

"Number three?"

"John Wesley Thorndyke. Also Methodist, as you can guess from his name. His father is a Methodist preacher, Richard Arnold Thorndyke. His mother's maiden name, Patricia Jane Burroughs. Thorndyke was born in Olympia, Washington, in 1931, and attended the University of Washington. He majored in philosophy and, for a while, flirted with the idea of entering the ministry himself. Strongly religious and devoutly interested in what he persists in calling 'the Holy Land.' He's not one of our most brilliant agents, but he has guts and he is most dependable."

"Is he so dependable that you find it impossible for him to be a double agent?"

"No one is that dependable. Suppose his strong religious emotion is enough to make him feel that it is blasphemous to have the Holy Land in Jewish hands."

"Would he feel better if it were in Muslim hands?"

"It is possible that he would like to see the region destabilized to the point where it can be placed under an international body representing all three faiths to which it is holy—we've actually had a report that he's said so at one time, advancing it as an ideal, rather than as a practical possibility—but who knows? As a double agent, he may feel that is the ideal he is working toward."

"And number four?" "That would be Leigh Garrett, Jr. Father is Senior, obviously. His mother's maiden name is Josephine O'Connell. He was born in Concord, New Hampshire, in 1925, and attended Dartmouth, where he majored in chemistry. He works at the scientific end of things with us. His family is Catholic, but he himself is not observant."

"Any reason you might suspect him?"

"Well, he's extremely conservative and if he's not a John Bircher, he has definite sympathies with them."

"I wouldn't think," I said grimly, "that this would bother the Department?"

The chief said stolidly, "Not if it doesn't affect his work, even though we don't welcome extremes of any kind. Emotionality is not something that is useful in our work. There is reason to think that Garrett is anti-Semitic, for instance."

"It's not uncommon."

"To be sure, but the question is—is he sufficiently anti-Semitic to want to see Israel destroyed by another set of Semites, the Arabs, even though Department policy is to do what it can to insure Israel's survival. We can't be sure of that."

"Then pass on to number five."

"The fifth is an older man, Jeremiah Miller. He was born in 1908 in Minneapolis, and attended the University of Colorado, where he majored in English literature. He tried writing, but got nowhere and he joined the Department before World War II. He had leave of absence to do some fighting and had a commendable battle record. He was wounded at Anzio. His parents are dead, and he's unmarried. He's an Episcopalian and a churchgoer."

I said, "He's been with the Department for nearly thirty years, and he put his life on line in battle. Can't you eliminate him as a possibility?"

"No, we can't. He lacks the spark that is required for advancement and he has seen a number of younger men promoted over his head. In fact, we're thinking of early retirement for him, and a half-pay pension—and he knows it." "And he resents it?"

"Wouldn't you? His parents are dead. No siblings. No wife. He's alone in the world, and there's nothing to distract his mind from any bitterness he may be feeling. Besides, there's the question of money. His pay is not high. His pension would be less. He's too old to make a new start of any kind. So it may be that he can be bought."

The chief seemed to brood a bit. "That's the trouble, you see. Each one of the five has a motive—a different motive in each case, and there's no way of determining which motive is the strongest, or which motive has been translated into actual action. Yet we have to get a handle on this, and right away. Things are moving rapidly in the Middle East and, in a matter of days, we'll have to cut out all five, if we can't narrow it down."

"And you want me to do the narrowing?"

"Yes, if you can. Study the motives and tell me which one will produce a double agent. I can make available to you all the raw data we have on each of the five—'"

"Not necessary," I said. "I think you have given me all the information I need."

"I have?" The chief seemed stupefied.

"I can't be completely certain, of course, but I estimate the odds at six to one that I have the right person."

"You mean, one of the motives—"

"Forget the motives. You're so busy being a psychoanalyst that you don't stop to look at the simple things."

And, as it happened, I was right. The result was that it was Israel that caught the Arab nations flat-footed in the Six-Day War, and not the other way around.

Jennings, Baranov and I stared at each other.

"You're faking, Griswold," I said truculently. "You had no way of choosing one of the five, and you know it."

Griswold manufactured a look of surprise. "You don't see it? Surely, you understand that a code name for an agent is of no use at all if it gives the slightest hint as to the agent's identity. None of our agents would accept a code name that would give him away. In other words, if one of our agents is known to the other side as 'Granite,' the signal that that sends us is that our agent has nothing to do, however indirectly, with granite. And that's what I call 'sending a signal.'

"We know, for instance, that the agent in question can't possibly have been born in New Hampshire, which is the 'Granite State,' and that eliminates Leigh Garrett, Jr. It also eliminates Saul Stein, since
stein
is the German word for 'stone' and that's too obviously close to granite to allow the latter to be a good code name."

"Then it must be the older man," said Baranov. "The fellow who was slated for early retirement. There's no connection with granite there."

Griswold's eyebrows shot up. "I told you he went to the University of Colorado—which happens to be located in the city of Boulder."

"The woman—" began Jennings.

Griswold broke in, "She was a feminist who absolutely insisted on the use of her maiden name. Such women are popularly named after someone who astonished nineteenth-century American society by using her maiden name. She was Lucy Stone, and Roberta Ann Mowery was an obvious Lucy Stoner. That leaves John Wesley Thorndyke, and he it was indeed. Logic is logic!"

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