by William Hood
“Just so long as you know I’m really out of it.” Trosper would not explain that when he left the Firm he was stale, tired of the secret world, of conspiracy and everything that went with it. But every time he thought he had finally shaken the old life, it came back and seized him. And with it came the old habits, like sitting up half the night drinking malt whiskey and talking shop.
“Sure Alan, if you say so.” Folsom took a sip of brandy. “It’s just that the three of us — the Troika — were really screwed by Volin and Bob Dwyer.”
“The Troika?”
“That’s what the idiots on the investigation panel dubbed us — it’s probably the only Russian word they knew.” Folsom’s light blue eyes blinked rapidly. “It’s like Volin, all he had to peddle was Mills and some bits and pieces on Prague.”
“Even these days, I’d have thought that blowing the Mills case was enough to qualify anyone for resettlement.”
“Up to a point, but Volin had some bizarre notions carried over from the old days. All he had going for him were Mills, a couple of languages, and a knack for cultivating women — not the most obvious talents to build a résumé on.” With a gentle, tap, Folsom knocked the ash from his cigar. “In fact, he was just a pretentious blowhard, whinging about money and demanding special treatment.”
“So how did you get mixed up in it?”
“When the creep realized that he was due for resettlement, he incidentally recollected that he had one more piece of exciting intelligence.” Folsom nodded several times as if to underline the irony. “Once upon a time it seems he heard two of his trainers talking about an important agent a pal of theirs was handling — and in the Firm, yet.”
Trosper shrugged. It was the sort of tease that any agent who had run out of gas might be tempted to concoct. “I suppose he had a few details?”
“Of course. The agent — the alleged agent — was one of our senior operations people. His — maybe her — usual beat was Europe, and the last name began with an F.”
“That’s all?”
“Not quite. Volin supplied a few dates and cities where the agent was supposedly met.”
Trosper took a sip of whiskey. “This is all very interesting, Roger, but why are you telling me?”
Folsom made a gentling gesture with his hand, an orchestra conductor softening a strident brass section. “A few hours after the report hit Dwyer’s desk, Volin was back in the safe house, and the whole thing classified Top Secret, with a maximum hold-down codeword attached to it.” Folsom paused before saying, “In fact, it was supposed to be so damned sensitive that even His Nibs, Thomas Augustus Castle, wasn’t allowed in on it.”
“Are you sure?” Trosper had always assumed that Castle, the Controller’s assistant for Special Operations, would figure in any case touching on the Firm’s security.
“Hell yes, I’m sure — after two weeks of their stupid questioning, and trying to remember where I was five years ago at four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of May, I bulled my way into Dwyer’s office and told him I damned well wanted to see Castle, and have him tell me face-to-face what the hell he thought was going on.” Folsom slammed his fist against the arm of his chair. “That’s when Dwyer told me that Castle had been kept out of the investigation because he might be too close to the former management to be objective.”
Trosper remained silent.
“Dwyer said that he’d established the panel — three outsiders, as he put it — because he was determined to get to the bottom of the case urgently and without getting hung up with any of the sick-think crap that he thought had caused the Firm so much trouble a few years ago.”
Trosper took a sip of his drink and rolled the heavy whiskey over his tongue. Sick-think was a pejorative used by some of the Firm’s bright young men and liaison specialists to describe what they considered to be Castle’s scepticism and security strictures. In turn, Castle referred to these operatives as “flat-earthers” who were convinced — history notwithstanding — that no one in Moscow or elsewhere on earth was conceivably wily enough to put anything over on them.
“It was a month before the panel was satisfied there were only three people in the shop who could possibly fit the evidence — if that’s what it was — that Volin was peddling.”
Folsom got up, walked to the window, and pushed the heavy portiere aside to look out into the street. He turned back to Trosper and said, “Alex Findley, Lotte Friesler, and me.”
He dropped the curtain and stepped slowly back to Trosper. “As soon as Dwyer was convinced that we were the only people who fitted the profile the panel had contrived, our clearances were lifted, the interrogation began, and I spent more time on the cooker than I want to remember.”
“What about corroborating data?”
Folsom sniffed. “Damn all, as far as I could figure out.” He drained his glass. “So when Dwyer couldn’t prove a case against any of us, he came up with a Scotch verdict. As he put it, I might not be guilty of anything, but I couldn’t be proved innocent either. And so he said he had no choice but to be safe rather than sorry.” Trosper had no reason to believe that Folsom and the others were anything less than competent and loyal employees, but he knew that just as secret intelligence has its discrete perquisites, it is also bound by its own disciplines. Accepting the perks meant abiding by the rules. When Research Estimates, Inc., was founded, the Controller was granted authority to dismiss any employee without giving the reason, or even honoring the customary rights of redress. Trosper had no brief for Dwyer’s judgment, but as Acting Controller he had the authority to dismiss employees he could not trust. Fair is fair, except in war, in love, and in the racket.
Much as he might sympathize with innocent victims, Trosper accepted the fact that secret intelligence could be a dangerous and messy business. But as far as he knew, nobody had ever been forced to join it.
With a gesture begging Trosper’s permission, Folsom stepped to the bar. He poured another brandy. “After a few words on what a great out-placement shop we had, Dwyer told me I was fired.” Folsom grimaced. “That’s a level of preventive medicine that would have a doctor amputate your leg because you’re going skiing and might break it.”
“I’m sorry this happened,” Trosper said, “and it certainly doesn’t do Dwyer any credit, but why are you telling me about it now?”
Folsom lowered his head and flexed his shoulders, a boxer shaking off a heavy blow. “Because it wasn’t right. It hurt the Firm and it damned well hurt the three of us.” Folsom dropped his cigar into the narrow crystal ashtray. “Maybe I’ve been away too long, but in the old days we used to be sure we carried our wounded off the field.”
Trosper shot to his feet, stepped beside Folsom, and gently pushed him back into the chair. “I’m sorry, old friend, I just wasn’t thinking.” He took Folsom’s glass from the table, handed it to him, and dropped back into his own chair. “I’m the one who’s been out of things longer than I realized.”
Folsom hesitated. “It’s okay … ”
“What about money?” Trosper asked quickly.
“Alex and I qualified for retirement, but Lotte came up short. All she got was a year or so severance pay.”
“What have you been up to since then?”
Folsom brightened. “About the time the Firm was putting all its eggs into the electronic memory box, I was sent off to give the computer wonks some notion how a field man would manoeuvre an inside agent to break through the computer security systems.” He picked up his dead cigar, lighted it, and took a few quick puffs. “Within a week I’d found a second home. It was like joining the racket all over again. A couple of years later one of the computer guys hit me for some dough. I plopped every penny I could scrape together into his company. By the time Dwyer handed me my walking papers, we’d tripled our investment, and I’ve been making a bundle ever since.”
“I still don’t see where I come in?”
“I’ve got a proposition for you,” Folsom said. “It�
��s right down your alley.” He raised his glass in a mock salute.
*
Emily was still reading when Trosper eased the bedroom door open. “It’s after one,” he said. “I thought you’d be asleep.”
She thrust her glasses back into her hair and put the book on the night table. “I liked Red Roger, all of his enthusiasm and wanting to put things right … ”
“He never was one to walk past a closed door,” Trosper muttered as he hung his tie on the rack.
“So what about that poor woman?”
Trosper sat on the side of the bed and ran his hand along her high cheekbone. “You heard what he said — she’d been dead a month before the security people were satisfied that Volin was telling the truth, and that she had been an agent, blackmailed or otherwise.”
“What she must have gone through, and then to die in a mugging … ”
Trosper kissed her lightly.
“What does Roger want you to do about it?”
“He’s a realist, sweetheart, there’s nothing can be done about it … ”
“Then what did he want?”
Trosper bent to untie his shoes. He fitted the three-piece trees and flicked bits of dust from the heels. “Roger had a nutty notion about my investigating what he calls the Troika crowd. Now that Duff Whyte is back at his desk, Roger wants me to get his permission to go through the files, talk to the people, and sort out Volin’s story about the penetration.” Trosper began to unbutton his shirt. “Roger said it wouldn’t cost the Firm a bean. He would give me a fee, pay all my expenses, and wouldn’t even insist on seeing my final report.”
“That’s wonderful, darling … ”
Trosper’s face sagged. It had been a long night. “Sad as it may seem, it’s out of the question. With everything that’s going on these days, Duff Whyte would think I’ve blown a gasket if I went to him with a proposal like that … ”
“You mean you’re not going to do anything about what they did to that poor woman, and your friends?”
“That poor woman, as you keep putting it, has been dead for some two years now. What Roger wants me to investigate is the allegation that either he or one of two others is a traitor. That’s something for the Firm, maybe even the FBI, to figure out.” He tossed his shirt over the back of the chair beside the bed. “There’s not a thing anyone can do for Charlotte Mills.”
“That’s really rotten,” Emily said as she abruptly turned on her side, her back to Trosper. “Even in the grave she hasn’t got anyone who gives a damn … ”
For a moment Trosper wondered just how many people dead or alive he could give a damn about. Then he touched Emily’s shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, I do plan to write Duff. Roger said that Lotte Friesler, a woman I never did like very much, is flat broke.”
“And when we go to the States next month, you’ll see Duff?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised.”
6
Casco Bay, Maine
Alan Trosper eased the sloop slowly along the lee of Cliff Island, savoring the last hour of the two-week cruise. He would skirt Ram Island to take a lingering look at Portland Head Light and then head back across the harbor for the short run to the marina and mooring.
It was the kind of early fall day that invariably kindled comment on Indian summer. But as Trosper remembered it, Indian summer came only after the first frost, and for the purists only in November, and on a full moon. Indian summer or not, the golden afternoon air, clear and cool and crisp, was a sure and welcome attestation of autumn. Emily had gone ashore at Camden for the weekend with a distant cousin and, as she reluctantly admitted, “for repairs.” As Trosper suspected, after nearly two weeks on the thirty-four-foot boat, her interest in having her hair done was at least as compelling as the opportunity to see the relative, an English expatriate recently retired from the U.N. in New York.
Trosper looked forward to a hotel room, an abundance of showering, and an hour with the New York Times. Then a quiet dinner in Portland and a long night, spread-eagled in the luxury of a hotel bed three times as wide as the bunks on the Krushia. He flicked the VHF switch, and paused to take a last fond look at the trim little craft, knowing that his call would acknowledge the end of sailing for the year. He shrugged and activated the microphone. “Handy Boat dock, this is Krushia. Over.”
It was like Tim Preble to have named his boat for Krushia, the prettiest girl in Podvolochiska, and much admired from afar by two of her Polish schoolmates who were later to be numbered among the most competent of the early defectors from Stalin’s intelligence service. It was also like Tim to have insisted that Trosper and Emily use the Krushia for their cruise along the Maine coast.
The VHF squawked. “Krushia, this is Linda, Handy Boat dock person. Your mooring is clear.” Trosper acknowledged the message, but before he could sign off, Linda called again. “Krushia, you have telephone messages in the office. Please be sure to pick them up before you leave.”
He eased the boat onto a tighter course. Only Tim Preble and Duff Whyte knew that Alan and Emily Trosper had been cruising for two weeks.
Two message slips. A telephone call from Emily Trosper in Camden. “A Mr. Château called just after you left. He asks you to call him at the Sonesta Hotel in Portland as soon as you land. He says it’s pressing.” The second message, taken by the boatyard, was more concise. “Call Thomas Shatow, Sonesta Hotel, Portland.” Trosper knew no Thomas Château, or even Thomas Shatow. But he did know Thomas Augustus Castle well enough to suspect that even in Portland, the head of the Firm’s Special Operations Staff would be too security conscious to use his own name in leaving a telephone message for a former colleague.
*
“Shrimp Wiggle,” Castle exclaimed, as he attempted to adjust his heavy body to the uncompromising right angle of the wooden booth. Trosper glanced suspiciously around the small diner, uncertain whether Castle was speaking in tongues or referring to the bill of fare. He decided to buy time. “This your first visit to Maine?” Castle adjusted his gold-framed half-glasses and brought his long slim fingers together in a temple as he fixed his attention on the plastic-covered menu. “Summer camp,” he said without looking up. “Three seasons at Camp Abenaki, and I still can’t start a fire with anything less than a box of matches and a carafe of kerosene.”
They were wedged opposite one another in one of a row of booths facing the counter and stools that ranged along the length of the chromium-and-plastic Miss Longfellow Diner. The long counter was dotted with plates of doughnuts, assorted cakes, and a variety of pies, each on its own pedestal and protected by a clear plastic dome. A sign above the pass-through to the kitchen proclaimed, “Open 24 Hours Daily. ‘Closed Xmas.’ The Best Food In Town.” The random use of quotation marks by American sign painters had always baffled Trosper.
Castle shifted his attention from the menu to a laminated wine card jammed between a bottle of catsup and a generous sugar bowl with a hinged metal cover. “And Bacchus wept,” he said, staring at the card. “We’d best concentrate on the food and perhaps a beer.” Trosper nodded glumly. After two weeks of seafood, he had set his heart on dinner at Hugo’s, a perfect martini, a fresh salad, meat, cheese, and whatever bottle of wine Johnny Robinson, the owner, might recommend. “Are you merely passing through, or are you here just to see me?” he asked.
“Shrimp Wiggle,” Castle repeated, pointing to the menu. “There aren’t many places, even in Maine, where you can get a good one these days. It’s special here on Friday, I recommend it.”
“So that’s it, just passing through?”
“For openers, a bowl of clam chowder?” Castle looked up from the menu, focusing on Trosper. “And then the shrimp — small local shrimp, rather a delicacy if they’re done properly?” His flannel blazer had been cut for a lesser Castle, and was stressed dangerously tight across the chest and upper arms. A gold collar button peeped from beneath the white collar and a club tie that Trosper failed to recognize.
“Maybe they
can rustle up some Blueberry Slump for dessert,” Trosper said.
Castle looked up, surprised. “I’ve been fishing in Canada. When the Controller got your letter, he asked me to talk with you before you went back to the U.K.”
Trosper nodded. He would let his host begin the shop talk when he was ready.
Castle took a final forkful of the small shrimp and glanced speculatively at Trosper. “Dwyer left a lot of loose ends, considering he was only Acting Controller,” he said. “Since Duff’s been back there’s not been any time for the Troika or for anything that his staff seems to think is history.”
“I remember Darcy Odium saying there’s no statute of limitations in counterespionage,” Trosper said. He was not sure that Odium, the man Harry Truman had chosen to establish the Firm, had ever mentioned anything about statute of limitation, but the observation was valid and it was something Odium might well have said.
Castle dipped a small piece of grainy Tuscan toast into the remaining white sauce and, without looking up, said, “To be sure — and Allen Dulles used to say that he’d never read a file, no matter how old, without learning something new.” Castle popped the bread into his mouth with a delicate gesture. “The unadorned truth is that with everything else that’s going on, we can’t spring anyone competent enough to sort out the Troika mess.”
Trosper doubted that Castle had ever uttered the unadorned truth. “What is it exactly that you might want me to do?” he said reluctantly.
“Red Roger could only have given you part of the story,” Castle said. “By the time Duff got back, Volin had been put back into the hands of the resettlement people. As soon as Duff found the time to look into it and ask me to resolve things, our three friends had been out for months. If Volin was actually on to something, obviously Duff has to get to the bottom of it. If our three colleagues were treated unfairly, he wants to put things right.” Castle pushed his empty plate aside and reached for the menu.
“What did you get out of the files?”