by Nick Carter
"You're getting jumpy, N3," the old man remarked.
"What makes you say that?"
"Just because a… let's say… voyeur decides to take a closer look at the action on top of that dune, you acted as if you were in fear of your life."
"If you hadn't checked out my car first, I might have taken you for just another Peeping Tom. But either way, I'm no exhibitionist, so I would have gotten out of there no matter what I thought you were."
Hawk nodded abruptly, struck a kitchen match and put it to the reeking bowl of his pipe. "When was the last time you sailed a boat, Nick?"
I had to think a moment. "The last time I was down in the Bahamas. Four months ago."
"What sort?"
"Just one of those little catamarans the hotels rent out."
"Nothing larger?"
"Not… let me think. Not since last summer. A friend of mine over on the Eastern Shore has a forty-two foot yawl. We spent a few days cruising the Chesapeake in her."
"Handle the boat yourself?"
"Sure. You know I can sail. I wouldn't try to skipper a 12-Meter in an America's Cup race, but I can get by in just about anything one man can normally handle."
"Yes, it's in your file. Navigation?"
"That's in the file too."
He nodded. "Alex Zenopolis."
I started to say something about my file again, but then the name penetrated and stopped me like a stone wall. "Alex," I breathed. "It's been years since I heard that name."
"Well, he's turned up in reports now and then since he defected to the Reds. Evidently worked himself up faily high in their intelligence apparatus."
"I don't remember seeing any of those reports."
"Be grateful you're in the field so much you're not required to read every report."
I was grateful, but wasn't about to say so. "Too bad I didn't see them; Alex and I were friends for a while."
"Yes, I recall."
"So what about him now?"
"Evidently he wants to come out."
It was my turn to nod; I didn't have to ask questions.
"Last night," Hawk went on, "one of our men posted in Greece along the Albanian border received a hand-carried message purporting to be from Zenopolis. It was promptly passed on here." Hawk opened the top folder and shoved a flimsy sheet of paper across the desk.
The message was understandably cryptic; all it said was that Alex Zenopolis, formerly of Greek intelligence, would personally contact U.S. agents in Greece within a week or so. Time and place to follow. Then he gave a signal of acknowledgment to be broadcast over a standard frequency at certain times.
I handed it back to the chief. "Do we have any idea where he is?"
"The last we heard, he was serving with some sort of liaison group operating between Yugoslavia and Albania." Hawk permitted himself a wintry smile. "You can imagine the delicacy of that sort of operation."
"I don't remember Alex as being the diplomatic type."
"No. On the other hand, we probably know less about what goes on inside Albania than we do about Red China."
"So you think he might have something important to tell us?"
"There's always that possibility. On the other hand, all he says is that he wants to contact us. Personally."
"Which means face to face. In Greece."
"And perhaps he merely wants to return to the fold."
I shrugged. "All right. Either way, he should have something of interest to tell us."
"Possibly a great deal."
"You have anything more to go on than this message?"
"Not really. But I'm rather anxious to receive the next one he sends."
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime you are going to take a crash course in sailing and navigating."
"I don't get it."
Hawk got up from his creaky swivel chair and went to the row of gray steel filing cabinets that are the office's only adornment. From a drawer he pulled out a rolled map, took it to the burn-scarred conference table behind me. I joined him there.
"Here," he said, "are the Balkan states. Greece, Albania, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, and Romania. Now our man, the one who received the message, was posted here." He pointed to a spot close to where the borders of Yugoslavia, Albania, and Greece all come together. "You'll note that there's a large lake here, and all three countries share its shores. In very mountainous country."
He didn't have to explain. "Is there much border traffic along there?"
"Surprisingly little, considering the difficulty of guarding the terrain. But such an area would present many opportunities for a skilled and experienced man."
"What about the messenger boy? Anything on him?"
Hawk shook his head, a little sadly I thought. "That's a more or less open listening post. Not run by AXE, needless to say. Evidently the messenger knew exactly where it was and… ahhh… merely slipped the note under the door."
Now I knew he was embarrassed, even if the operation hadn't been under our control. So I kept quiet and let him go on.
"At any rate, given the nature of the work Zenopolis has been doing, it would be logical to assume he's somewhere in this region." He put a blunt, tobacco-stained finger on the lake.
"Don't tell me I have to sail on that."
"Not at all. As a matter of fact, if Zenopolis intends to come out in that area, we can't have anything to do with him. Not there."
"Why not?"
"Look at the location. In one direction a country as violently opposed to the Western nations as any in the world. Next to it Yugoslavia, cordial toward us these days, but still unquestionably allied with the other side. And Greece. An ally of ours, yes, but our relations under the present government are decidedly strained. And imagine how much those colonels who now rule it would love to get their hands on someone like Zenopolis."
"I think I see. The only way to get him out fast, once he crosses the border, would be by air. And that would mean a long flight over either Albania or Greece, neither of which would be very anxious to let us get away with the prize."
"And if the Greeks learn U.S. agents were involved in any way, there could be much worse trouble."
"Exactly."
"Which brings us back to the sailing lessons."
Hawk ran his finger down to the western coast of Greece. "When we establish contact with Zenopolis again, we are going to insist that he break out through Albania as close to the sea as possible. It's the only way we can afford to get involved with him at this point."
"What if he does have some kind of vital information for us?"
"Then we may have to change our thinking. Meanwhile, you're to be prepared to meet him somewhere in this area. You will then transport him across to Taranto, which is on the heel of Italy's boot."
"All right, but why me? Any agent could do this job, and I don't imagine I'm the only one who can navigate a sailboat across… what?" I checked the scale of miles; the map showed a little piece of southeastern Italy. "Maybe seventy-five miles? A hundred at most?" I was beginning to get a little peeved, recalling my embarrassing flight across the sand with the nude Monica in tow.
"Oh, we have one or two agents who are better qualified in that respect than you are. But none of them knows Alex Zenopolis by sight."
It took a moment for that to sink in. "But look," I protested, "I haven't laid eyes on the man in fifteen years. I could pass him on the street and not recognize him."
"Let's hope that's not the case. I was looking at your personnel file earlier today, and in that time your appearance hasn't changed to any noticeable degree."
If the old man was trying to flatter me, he couldn't have picked a better method. I'd been just a kid in my early twenties then, not long out of training, and pretty cocky about my looks and physical condition. In all the years since, I'd kept myself in shape, and as far as the looks were concerned I guess I have one of those faces that just don't age much. My hair was still thick and dark, a little longer than in those e
arlier, straight-arrow, Eisenhower days. I weigh ten pounds more than I did then, but I put it on deliberately through a program of weight training, and there's not an ounce on me I don't want. If that sounds like bragging, so be it; a man who works hard to stay in condition ought to be a little proud of it.
"Okay," I agreed with Hawk. "So maybe I will recognize Alex."
"And even if you don't, of course, you should be able to establish his identity by talking about old times."
I wasn't so sure of that; if the other side was throwing in a ringer, he was bound to be well briefed. But I wasn't about to argue. "So what's next, sir?"
Hawk walked back to his desk. "As soon as you pack some clothes you will fly by commercial airliner to Providence. Reservations have been made for you in the name of Daniel McKee. My secretary has the credit cards and other papers to back up the identity."
"Providence?" My surprise must have been obvious.
Hawk chuckled and started guiding me to the door. "Your final destination is Newport. But in the city you loathe you'll be met at the airport by a man named Nathaniel Frederick. He'll brief you further."
"Is he one of our agents?"
"Not at all. In fact, he's exactly what he sounds like."
"What's that?" I didn't trust the old man when he was smiling.
"Why, a retired New England schoolteacher, of course."
Three
He was waiting for me when I walked into the terminal, a tall man with a ruddy complexion and tousled dark hair that had just a touch of gray in it. His handshake was cordially firm, but from the feel of his leathery palm, I got the impression he could squeeze a bar of silver into a roll of dimes. He had a merry, impish face, eyes dancing constantly, and his comfortably broad middle was no wider than his equally broad shoulders. Even before he spoke, I knew why he was working for AXE; Nathaniel Frederick was clearly a man who had been there and back, and had loved every minute of it.
"You're lucky," he was saying as we left the terminal and headed for his ancient station wagon parked just outside. "Your plane was on time. Usually the flights from Washington can be counted on to arrive at least an hour late."
"Maybe you're the lucky one," I said. "You didn't have to wait."
"Oh, I don't mind waiting." He patted the black briefcase he held under one arm. "I always come prepared to while away idle moments."
If that remark was supposed to make me curious, it worked. But I decided to hold back until I had a clearer picture of the man who looked like anything but a retired New England schoolteacher. As he started the noisy but smoothly-running engine, I studied his profile for a moment. No more than mid-fifties, I estimated, and that made me do some more thinking. Retired? He looked as though he could keep going until he was eighty, and probably then some.
He drove steadily, with casual skill, negotiating the streets and highways until we broke clear of the city. I knew almost nothing about this part of the country, except that once I'd been sent to Brown for a special course. It was the middle of winter, and winters in Providence can make a man long to be just about anywhere else. Once I'd been to Newport, cruising with some friends in a boat that could legitimately be called a yacht, but I never even made it ashore during our overnight stay.
"What's the drill?" I asked as an opener.
Nathaniel glanced at me. He was definitely not the sort of man you would call Nat "Well, you'll be staying at my house. I'm to take you out sailing every day until you're as at home at the helm as I'm sure you are at the wheel of a car. Then there are various other things you'll have to know…"
"Navigation," I interrupted.
"Oh, that goes with the sailing, and if you need some brushing up on theory, I'll help you with that, of course. But that's the easy part."
"Is that right?"
He grinned, his face lighted by the lights on the instrument panel. "You'll have to memorize details — size, rigging, optional equipment, and especially prices — of virtually every sailing craft currently for sale in the United States and other parts of the world."
"All that? What for?"
Nathaniel chuckled. "David told me he hadn't had time to give you much of a briefing, but I didn't realize he hadn't told you anything."
The man beside me was coming up with a surprise every time he opened his mouth. He was the only person I'd ever heard call the chief by his first name.
"He said you'd fill me in on the details."
"Only of this part of the operation, of course. And that's to turn you into a reasonable facsimile of a yacht broker, Mr. Daniel McKee. I don't know why, and I never expect to find out, so whatever you've learned about your operation, please don't tell me."
I wasn't about to, but my own curiosity made me determined to find out everything I could about this overgrown cherub. "I gather you've worked with Hawk before."
"Oh certainly," he admitted. "We go back to World War n, when both of us worked in Naval intelligence. Well, at least I did; David was… unattached, as we used to say."
"Uh-huh. And now you teach school?"
"No longer. I retired several years ago."
I eyed him openly, making sure he was aware of it. "You seem a little young for retirement," I said bluntly, probing for a reaction.
He just nodded agreement. "That's true. I'm only fifty-nine. But when my wife died, it made my position awkward at St. Dunstan's."
"That's the school?"
"Yes. You see, boys at prep schools tend to grow attached to certain faculty wives. You know, the afternoon teas, the sort of open-house atmosphere that some places maintain. My wife, I can say without boasting, was perhaps the favorite of all the faculty wives, and when she was gone, I found there was too much… well, let's say sympathy for me. It became very difficult to teach, and I found it disturbing to have boys in for bull sessions with only myself. So… I retired."
He spoke matter-of-factly, a little smile on his lips, but he swiped once at his eyes, then cleared his throat loudly.
"You… ah… still live on the campus?" I was less concerned with where he lived than how it might affect my cover; the last thing I wanted to do was have to cope with a bunch of curious schoolboys.
"Oh no. I took a house down by the yacht club on the Sakonnet. Not very large, but it suits my needs, and it's close enough to the campus so I can expect friends to drop in from time to time. And I do keep busy, Mr. Carter, excuse me, Mr. McKee. Retirement, you know, is the time of life when a man finds the opportunity to do all those things he put off earlier."
Okay, so he knew my real name. That was no surprise, not after learning how close he was to Hawk. But it seemed to me he was talking too freely to me, and I wondered how far he'd go.
"I guess you've done this kind of thing for Hawk before," I remarked.
He glanced at me quickly. "Not exactly. That is, I don't run a regular seamanship school for AXE agents, though I've taught one or two of your colleagues the fundamentals from time to time."
"But you've… kept in touch all these years."
He grinned. "You're probing, Mr. McKee."
It seemed like a good idea to be frank. "I always like to know as much as possible about the man I'm dealing with. Especially when he's obviously an old pal of my chief."
Nathaniel chuckled. "Well, there's no reason not to tell you a little bit. I have some small talents in various fields that David has been able to make use of when I've been available. Aside from boats and sailing, I'm a pretty good photographer, thanks to the Navy and the training they gave me many years ago. And I do travel; even when I was still teaching, I usually sailed to Europe, the Caribbean, even across the Pacific, during those long summers that schoolteachers live for. On my sabbatical — God, nearly ten years ago! — I took my wife and two daughters — grown and left the nest now — on a cruise around the world. David asked me to look into certain things, make contacts… well, you know what I mean. I'm sure you don't intend to ask me for details."
"They must be in the agency files."
"I hope not. The little chores I've done for your chief have been personal favors. For an old friend. And as an old friend, David assured me my name would never appear in any AXE file, not even in code. I trust him. Don't you?"
I nodded. And realized at the same time that I trusted this man as much as anyone I had ever met in my life. Which, of course, bothered me, because a big part of my profession is to be suspicious of damned near everybody I come into contact with.
"That sounds like quite a cover," I said. "You, the wife, the kids, sailing around the world. What ports did you hit?"
Nathaniel shook a gently chiding finger at me. "Now, now, Nick, don't start pushing. That was years ago, and whatever little things I did for David are long finished. Besides, I always stayed clean, was never identified as an agent of any sort. And I intend to keep it that way."
"In that case," I said wryly, "you'd better remember to call me Daniel McKee."
"Oh, I won't forget."
"And I'm a… yacht broker?"
"That's the idea. Why don't we wait until we get to my place before we discuss it any further? It's starting to rain, and these pesky windshield wipers only smear the water around."
* * *
My efficiency apartment would have fit into the kitchen of Nathaniel Frederick's "not very large" house. It was a ramshackle structure, two stories, white clapboard, with a wide covered porch running along the back and overlooking a wide body of water. When we arrived, the rain was driving, and I wasn't at all sure exactly where we were. But I wasn't worried, not with Nathaniel.
By the time I'd been shown to my upstairs room and had washed up, my host had a fire going in the big, comfortable living room that evidently also served as a study. Books and papers were piled everywhere; one wall was lined with cork, on which were pinned blowups of some of the best boating photographs I'd ever seen. Scattered around on shelves and occasional tables were framed pictures of children in various stages of growing up, and on another wall was a painting of a woman, proudly white-haired but radiantly beautiful. It was only a head-and-shoulders portrait but I knew she was the sort of woman who would draw all eyes away from a parade of Playboy bunnies. My respect for Nathaniel Frederick went up a few more notches; if I'd lost someone like that I sure as hell wouldn't go around smiling.