The Sunday Spy

by William Hood

  Lotte took a sip of her drink. “That was my first good field operation. I liked it, and I did a damned good job with Jeep.” She smiled ironically. “Of course, it meant that I could nip over to Ferney-Voltaire any Sunday — to meet with my Moscow control.” She shook her head in disgust. “At least that’s the way Dwyer’s bright boys saw it.”

  Trosper nodded. “What about the other places?”

  Lotte leaned back and crossed her legs. “Let’s see. There was Christmas weekend in Mexico City, in 1987. I was en route for a couple of weeks’ vacation in Cuernavaca, but stopped for the holiday with my old roommate from Chicago. She’s married to a TV news guy stationed in Mexico City. I was there three days — long enough to meet everyone in the rezidentura. Very suspicious.” She put her glass aside, and rolled her eyes. “Apparently my big mistake was that I didn’t check in with our office in Mexico City. I didn’t have any friends there, and you know as well as I do that we’re under specific instructions not to pay office calls unless we’re on the Firm’s business. But with my luck, this was one of the times that the alleged agent had an alleged meeting in Mexico. No matter what my record was, Dwyer’s Gestapo considered this very suspicious.”

  Lotte got up and poked gently at the fire. “A year later, I was in Brussels for five weeks helping back up the debriefing of Slipper, a really hot Syrian.” She fixed her eyes on Trosper. “Easter weekend — I could easily have got to Ghent for the Treff their source seems to have reported.” Again she shook her head. “Of course there were probably five hundred other Americans on vacation or duty in and around Brussels at the time — NATO, the embassy, the consulate, not to mention those next door in Luxembourg. For that matter, Germany isn’t all that much of a drive from downtown Brussels.” Trosper finished his drink. “Enough, I do get your point … ” Lotte’s eyes watered. “They couldn’t lay a glove on me, Alan, not one of the bastards. Not a glove, not one bit of proof, not a scrap of derogatory … ”

  Trosper got up.

  “Duff and Castle can’t expect me to prove a negative … ”

  “I know that … ”

  “I’m good at what I do. I’ve got ten, maybe fifteen years left to work. I wouldn’t say this to anyone but you, because you already know — I’m one of the best. And I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Whatever happens, it will take a little while, Lotte … ”

  “I want a job, my job back,” she said. “There’s no one else can do what I can do, no one who’s had my experience … ”

  “Everything’s changed, Lotte. It changed faster than you think.”

  “Exactly what’s changed, Alan? Do you really think the new crowd running Russia is about to strike out one of its own eyes, the one eye that has a clear vision of what’s going on in the world? If there ever was a time when Moscow needs to know what’s going on in Washington, in Bonn, in Tokyo and London, it’s right now when Russia’s all but flat on its back and desperate for any aid it can get … ”

  “Lotte, for God’s sake … ”

  “Do you think their military are just going to stack arms? Most of their science is twenty years behind the rest of us. Is it likely they’ll give up stealing the technology they need to keep up with the rest of the world?”

  “You’re kicking at an open door, Lotte … ”

  “They’ve got a new name, but it’s the same old racket, just slimmed down, and rid of some of the fat and the ideological crap they’ve been carrying all these years.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, Lotte … ”

  “I’m not going to rot here for the rest of my life. Duff has to know that he hasn’t got the only racket in town. You talk about things changing, and you’re right. There are plenty of foreign services that could use an advisor, someone in the back room who can help them figure out what’s going on in Washington, how to get along with the Agency, and how to deal with some of the other rackets. Most of them would rather have me than some of those Moscow goons who are circulating their résumés.”

  “That’s foolish, Lotte … ”

  “There’s the whole Near East — I know for a fact that I could bring a lot to the table in half a dozen places.”

  “That’s not for you, and you know it.”

  “Before that happens, I’ll go to Senator Mewley,” she said. “That’s a promise, you can tell Duff.”

  “That’s just dumb, Lotte.”

  “Alan, I’m broke. There’s not a damned thing I can do about it … ”

  Trosper pulled on his coat. “Give us a little time, Lotte. It shouldn’t be long.” As she opened the door, Trosper took her hand.

  “Just tell them I want my job back … any job, I just don’t give a damn.”

  18

  Prague

  Trosper glanced up from the street map and muttered, “I guess no one’s perfect … ”

  “Trouble?” Emily smiled as she continued to admire the church at the bottom of Karlovo Square.

  “This may be a better area than somewhere in the Mala Strana, across the Moldau,” Trosper said, as he stared across the grassy center of Karlovo Square toward the dead drop area. “But I’d have picked a spot with tourists elbow to elbow rather than the biggest park in Prague with only a handful of dog-walkers, and lines of sight stretching three city blocks.” They had strolled from the subway, stopping occasionally to check a building or street sign against their guidebook and, not incidentally, to allow Trosper a better chance to glimpse any possible surveillance. Not that it mattered. With no support other than Grogan and Widgery, neither of whom were to come within two hundred yards of the drop, it would be a simple decision — go or no go.

  “In a way, I suppose this site is fitting,” Trosper said, looking up from the guidebook. “On the north that Gothic relic went from being a town hall to a criminal court and prison.” Book in hand, he turned south. “That baroque joint, known as the Faust House, is where Rudolf II underwrote the research to turn lead into gold.”

  It was dusk before their flight had reached the bleak airport and dark before they arrived at the Păríž Hotel, an art-nouveau building tucked discreetly on the street winding beside the baroque Smetna Concert Hall near the Republiky Square. The massive, dark wood concierge’s desk crowded the small reception area. “A letter, Mr. Anderson,” the reception clerk had said, puffing his rounded cheeks like an anxious rabbit. “It was delivered yesterday.”

  Trosper glanced up, but continued to fill in the registration form — Mr. and Mrs. Sam Anderson, Cambridge, MA, USA. Tourism. Five days. He jammed the ballpoint pen back into the holder and took the letter. As they waited for the elevator, Trosper turned to Emily and spoke loudly enough for the clerk to hear. “For once, Jan has come through. He said he’d have the letter here, and by God here it is.”

  Emily stopped unpacking to watch Trosper as he studied the letter. “Everything in order?” she asked.

  Trosper shook his head. Not the slightest cover text. Even the boy who brought their bags to the room could have recognized the letter for what it was. The envelope was addressed to Mr. S. Anderson, with “Arrivée” and the date scrawled at the corner of the envelope. Cheap stationery, one blank sheet folded over a second sheet with a message and carefully drawn sketch of the dead drop area. The crisp type was proof enough that the letter was not written on the machine Sinon had used for his earlier correspondence.

  Trosper scowled as he studied the text. Sinon, that prince among operatives, had not troubled with any cover message. “Mr. Anderson, For security, I have left instructions in a drop. You must empty the cache between 0930 and 1000 hours tomorrow morning, not later. It is essential you keep this skedule and be prepared to meet me after you study the material I will leave for you. Please to come alone. Sinon.”

  He dropped the empty envelope into the wastebasket and began to orient Sinon’s sketch of the dead drop on the street map given him when he picked up the cooked passports in Washington. For his own purposes Sinon had done one thing right. He
had picked a site that Trosper could not possibly reconnoiter before the deadline.

  As he prepared to brief Grogan and Widgery, Trosper began to mark a tentative route on the map, and made notes for visual signals — coat collar up, collar down, gloves on, gloves off, blow on fingers. If there was no indication of more than a single watcher along the route or at the drop, it would at least indicate that Sinon was, as claimed, operating on his own. In the absence of any other apparent problem, Trosper would risk emptying the drop. If there was any sign of a more sophisticated stakeout, he would assume it to be proof that Sinon was not operating on his own, or that his maneuvering had attracted professional attention. In this circumstance, Trosper would not approach the drop.

  *

  Trosper cinched up the belt of his trench coat and mumbled a complaint. Although he was convinced that at least half the English-speaking, male tourists in Europe wore trench coats, he was also certain that there was not a policeman, security officer, or counterintelligence operative on the continent who would waste a second glance at these travelers, let alone assume any one of them to be involved in any operational hanky-panky. But from the moment Trosper slipped into a trench coat, he felt as if he were wearing a sandwich board proclaiming “Agent on Secret Mission.” Silently he damned Le Queux, Sapper, Hitchcock, Hollywood, Ambler, and Ian Fleming. But maybe not Fleming. James Bond, who rarely bothered to adopt a pseudonym, live a cover, mask his movements, or speak a word of a foreign language, had one operational virtue. Trosper could not recall Bond wearing a trench coat.

  As they crossed into the park, Trosper remembered the reversible topcoats from his college days and wondered why manufacturers had stopped making them. Perhaps the waterproofed gabardine on one side and tweed on the other made the coats too bulky for city wear. Whatever the reason for the coat’s demise, it was a pity. It was one of the least compromising operational gimmicks, and Trosper had worn his to shreds. A few seconds in a telephone booth or public toilet was time enough to turn the coat inside out, to exchange a cap for a rolled felt hat, and to pull on a pair of clear cheaters. This quick change scarcely qualified as a disguise, but could offer enough camouflage to permit an agent to risk continuing a surveillance, or perhaps even help to shake off an inexperienced follower.

  He glanced at Emily. Her soft felt hat and tweed coat were inconspicuous, but could not cloak her height. Despite low-heeled walking shoes, Emily was tall enough to attract an extra flicker of attention. They crossed into the park. Trosper glanced over his shoulder. Even at two hundred yards, with an affected limp, and on the opposite sidewalk, Grogan was clearly a tourist. No matter, Trosper told himself, if there was to be a problem it would come at the drop site. The most Grogan could hope to do would be to identify any observer and, if the worst happened, to alert the police to the violence being perpetrated against a fellow tourist. Widgery was to remain far behind Grogan, and to move closer only as Trosper approached the drop. If anything hit the fan, Trosper said firmly, Widgery’s only role would be as handyman, an operational gofer. No heroics whatsoever, Grogan added with heavy emphasis.

  Trosper had always avoided the use of uninvolved bystanders as operational props, or even to provide protective coloration. Admonitions tumbled through his mind. “It ain’t the Boy Scouts,” was one of Odium’s laconic observations. “If they haven’t got shoulder pads and a helmet, they’d better stay the hell in the bleachers,” was Nobby Tilson’s advice.

  Now, as his glance settled on the lone figure near the entrance to Karlovo Square, Trosper cursed his decision to have Emily accompany him to the drop site. The public obsequies of the former Moscow Center and the notions of an intelligence détente were but smoke, fanned by newspaper and TV intelligence experts. How long would it be before some compromised Moscow operation would remind the press that though organizations and players might change, the need to uncover what one’s adversaries and even allies wished to conceal would not diminish, and that the racket would go on much as it always had.

  The sole figure on the far side of the crowded Jĕcná thoroughfare moved slowly across the four lanes of traffic. His shabby raincoat and nondescript black Austrian hat were adequate, but the man’s aspect, the most important factor in passing unnoticed, was hopeless. Once on the sidewalk, he seemed preoccupied, his pace fitful. He lacked the skill to loiter. An easy make, amateur hour.

  Trosper glanced back to catch Grogan’s eye, and raised himself slightly on the balls of his feet before turning slowly in the direction of the man in the shabby raincoat. Grogan followed Trosper’s glance. He studied the man for a moment and then turned up the collar of his topcoat to acknowledge Trosper’s signal.

  So far so good. Trosper bent over Emily’s shoulder as if interested in what she was studying in the guidebook.

  Grogan pulled off his gloves and blew on his fingers. Widgery, who had closed to within a hundred yards of Grogan, abruptly thrust both hands into his pockets and then, as if worried that Grogan might not have noticed this confirmation of his signal, nodded twice.

  “I’m pooped, let’s find a place to sit for a minute,” Trosper said as he took Emily’s arm. Surprised, Emily turned as if to protest. “It will be easier to study the book sitting down,” he said softly as he guided Emily toward the double row of benches a hundred yards ahead, at the bottom of the park.

  In the distance, Grogan pulled on his gloves, confirming that he too had identified only one watcher. So far, so good.

  Shabby Raincoat, or Sinon, if it was Sinon, slowed his pace as he moved along, roughly parallel to Trosper. If it was Sinon, he remained too far away to compare against the memory of the Volin mug shots Trosper had studied in Washington. Call him Sinon, and the hell with it.

  Trosper bent toward Emily, and as he appeared to study the guidebook map, peered once more along Spalena Street at the side of the square. If anything comes down, he realized, the first sign will be a very businesslike car, possibly two cars. One along past Grogan, the other down the busy Jĕcná Boulevard. With all the real estate in Prague, Sinon had chosen a drop exposed to surveillance from every direction at ground level, and from any of the apartment houses, offices, and churches lining the square. Even the Karlovo Square was not a square, it was an oblong park, maybe three hundred yards long, the largest in Prague.

  With an impatient movement, Trosper took the guidebook from Emily, and began thumbing the pages. Then, after another quick glance around, he pulled off his gloves. Enough already. He would empty the drop.

  In the distance, Grogan turned down his coat collar. A signal to Widgery. Grogan moved slowly toward Trosper.

  With his right hand, Trosper groped under the edge of the bench. Nothing.

  He leaned slightly to the side and ran his fingers along the second slat in the bench. A Ping-Pong ball taped or tied to the wooden slat? Not possible. He worked the object loose. Without looking at it, Trosper recognized it as a 35-mm film canister, wrapped in plastic or a condom and thumbtacked to the bench. He eased the packet into his coat pocket and turned to Emily.

  “We might go along now, and take a look at the St. Cyril and Metodej Church,” he said. “It’s where the Czech parachutists who killed Heydrich took refuge when they were betrayed,” Trosper mumbled, making conversation to mask his increasing anxiety from Emily. “Heydrich was a real swine, but one of the brighter lights in Hitler’s inner circle. The poor Czechs knew they were trapped but they fought off the SS for hours. In the end they committed suicide. The guy who sold them stood outside with the Gestapo and watched.”

  Trosper got quickly to his feet. “If anyone asks, that’s where we’re headed … ” He reached down and pulled Emily gently to her feet.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. “You jumped up as if you’d just realized you’ve been sitting on wet paint.”

  Trosper managed a smile. “Just remember, you’re Mrs. Sam Anderson, from Boston,” he said. “Don’t say anything a tourist wouldn’t say, and demand to speak to the American embassy.”
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  “For God’s sake, Alan, those days are over … ”

  “My name is Sam … ”

  They turned up the graveled sidewalk and stepped out of the park. At the corner of his vision, and at least two hundred yards away, Trosper could see Sinon. If it was the master operative, he had given up all pretence of cover and was staring directly up the street beyond Trosper. After a moment’s hesitation, the man turned and hurried along the tree-lined avenue.

  The tires on the black Skoda protested as the driver gunned it around the corner. Trosper pulled Emily aside as the driver braked and the car slued to a stop on the frost-covered paving stones at the curb beside them.

  Two men lurched from the doors as a second shabby Skoda braked to a halt, its bumper flush against the first car. The first man — black alpine hat, dark brown leather coat, heavy black shoes with thick, cleated soles — sprang directly in front of Trosper. The second — tweed cap, dark green raincoat, and heavy shoes — stepped to Trosper’s side. He touched his cap and said, “You are coming with us, please.”

  “Don’t be so damned silly,” Trosper said.

  A stocky woman in a black beret and ankle-high shoes stumbled from the front seat of the second Skoda and approached Emily.

  “Who the hell are you people?” Trosper said loudly, twisting his arm away from Leather Coat.

  “Verĕjná bezpečnost — police,” Tweed Cap said quietly. “There’s a problem. You’re to come with us, please.”

  “There’s no goddamned problem at all,” said Trosper loudly. He could see Grogan walking slowly toward the Jĕcná street at the top of the park.

  “Missus, you come now,” Stocky Beret said, as she took Emily’s arm.

  Emily’s face flushed as she shook off the woman. “Sam, who are these people … ”