by Behn, Noel;
“I know where we’re going,” said Rone, “but I don’t know why.”
“You’ll find out when the time comes, but I can assure you one thing: You’ll crawl before you walk. If that girl and you wanta be in on the fun you better shag right downstairs and get ready for your first steps.”
“Then you’re keeping her?”
“She might suit our purposes, but we’re going to make her prove it pronto.”
11
Eleven Men
It had not been one of Potkin’s good days. It began badly before breakfast, with the persistent ringing of the doorbell. Potkin was waiting for a phone call in the office on the first floor of his New York town house. The staff was not awake, so he answered the door himself. A deliveryman handed him a package. It was the new portable stereophonic record player he had bought for his daughters two days before. When they had first asked for it he had refused, not so much on ideological grounds as out of fundamental parsimony. He submitted, but rather than buy the model his daughters had suggested, he scanned the newspapers for bargains and finally found a sale in the Bronx that offered sets at fifty percent off. He and his daughters took the uptown trip only to find that the models were reconditioned rejects of little-known brands. The girls objected to their father’s meanness. Potkin held firm. It was either one of these or nothing. Holding back the tears in their eyes, his daughters reluctantly agreed.
If Potkin had believed in deities he might have felt the delivery at seven in the morning was an evil omen. When the girls awoke at seven-thirty they found the unopened carton sitting inside their door. Ignoring calls to breakfast, they tore apart the cardboard, unwrapped the set, plugged the cord into the socket, placed their favorite record on the turntable and switched the machine on. Not only did all the fuses blow, but the wiring caught fire. Before anyone could reach an extinguisher, smoke began pouring from their room. Potkin could not avoid calling the Fire Department. The burning wires were soon put out, but the house was left without electricity. The power failure cut off the automatic furnace and somehow caused the basement to flood.
Potkin’s staff spent most of the morning watching electricians and plumbers meander about the house repairing the damage. The workmen resented the close scrutiny. Furniture was accidentally tipped over, and several odds and ends were broken, which better hospitality might have preserved. When the workmen left, Potkin’s staff methodically checked the house for damage and most of all for bugging. This took most of the day.
While the staff secured the house, Potkin took refuge in an upstairs bedroom, working through his files. He examined the final report on potential American agents. At first he breathed a sigh of relief. After almost three months of work the whereabouts of only eleven men were unknown. As he read, however, he changed his mind. Photographs and biographies had been obtained on ten men, but for the eleventh there were no records—just a name.
Potkin knew that in the bureaucracy of the United States it was almost impossible for a citizen not to be recorded on paper in some easily accessible file. From birth to the grave the life of an American was one long series of city, state, federal, institutional and industrial documentation.
Potkin had always scoffed at America’s obsessive condemnation of totalitarian governments’ police systems. No country in the history of the modern world kept more recorded material on more of its population than the United States of America. In the land of the free more was written down than anywhere else. Telephone books alone located almost a fifth of the populace. Women were sometimes difficult to find because of marital name changes, but the average American male was easy to locate and investigate, and government employees were even easier.
For Potkin, the simplest, by far were members of the armed services. They were bound to show up sooner or later on income-tax returns, social-security lists, FBI fingerprint files, Armed Forces Insurance records or Veterans Administration classifications. These were the areas that Potkin’s agents had infiltrated. Once you had the name of a current member of the armed forces or a veteran, the rest was usually automatic.
Potkin rocked back in his chair and bit the eraser of his pencil. This time it was different. He had the name of the eleventh man and that was all. As exceptional as it seemed, there was absolutely no additional information anywhere.
He took out a pad of paper and rapidly began writing a report to Kosnov. He would send a copy to Bresnavitch first. When he finished he buzzed for his secretary.
“Have this typed and sent out by diplomatic courier tonight,” he ordered.
Rone sat at the monitor typewriter in the Tillinger mansion and read Potkin’s report as it was being typed.
He watched as the last paragraph began:
Lt. Commander Charles Rone, USN, ONI, discharged October 10, 1964.
Name appears on discharge order, but nowhere else. Travel orders, veterans’ files show negative information. File not to be found. Deem situation “unusual.” It appears that all written information concerning Charles Rone has intentionally been removed. Major question is why discharge order was left to be found.
Summation: Situation concerning Charles Rone evaluated as “potential.” Thorough investigation will be undertaken.
12
Preparation
Rone had been scheduled to take another trip to bring back two more agents, but he had twisted his knee in the fight with Ward. The joint had swollen and he walked with a decided limp. His assignment was exchanged with the Warlock, the man with the pompadour who had first greeted him at the front desk.
For the first three days he acted as receptionist and guide for the Tillinger display of South American sarcophagi on the first floor. The public was admitted fron ten A.M. to two-thirty P.M. There were not many visitors, but there were endless deliveries. A constant stream of trunks pulled up before the mansion. Crates, boxes and cartons of all sizes and descriptions were unloaded. All were stenciled with the same words: Tillinger Fund—Tasmanian Exhibition. Each one was earmarked for a specific member of the operation. Professor Buley and Dr. Set were the most often named.
From two-thirty until eight, Rone, along with Buley and the beardless Janis, who had arrived the day after Rone and B.A., distributed the cargo throughout the house. Most of the deliveries were taken right through to the house behind the Tillinger mansion. The Puppet Maker had requisitioned the basement, subbasement and kitchen areas of this house. The two-story high ballroom was assigned to the Erector Set. The third floor was divided between communications and printing. The fourth and fifth floors were living accommodations and classrooms. Briefing rooms were established on the fourth floor. The dining room adjoined the ballroom.
The Tillinger mansion itself was to be used for living accommodations and offices. It had its own kitchen and dining area.
In the evenings Professor Buley and Rone worked together. The first two evenings they unpacked Russian foodstuffs. The canned goods were meticulously sorted and put onto shelves according to the regions they came from. The same geographic classifications were used in the large walk-in refrigerator for the imported fresh vegetables and the frozen Russian meats.
On the third night Rone was fascinated as they unpacked specimens of Russian water. Buley gave them his undivided attention. There were some twenty-five quart bottles in all. Each had a chemical analysis attached to it. Rone followed Buley into the basement, where a complete chemical laboratory had been built and outfitted. In an adjoining room stood half a dozen five-hundred-gallon aluminum water tanks. They spent several hours cleaning them. It was well past midnight on the third night when Buley turned to Rone.
“And now we’ll start manufacturing Russian water,” he announced.
“Why?” asked Rone.
“Why would you think?” countered the professor.
Rone thought. “The chemical composition of Russian water must be different. Therefore if we drink it and are captured we could pass a chemical analysis test. No, that doesn’t sound right.”
“But there is another reason: Americans are used to much purer water than any other people in the world. Therefore our systems have become rather weak. We have a very low tolerance for impurity in liquid as well as in food. Americans abroad have always had difficulty adjusting to the drinking water of foreign countries, and rightly so. In some places it’s half poison. We’re highly susceptible to dysentery and other diseases contracted from impure water. This is almost always the way to spot an American in poor water areas. Perhaps this is why the majority of the world doesn’t bother to drink water at all.
“What we will be doing is starting each of you on the poorest-grade water from the area you supposedly came from. Slowly we will build up your resistance. Then we will move you on to the areas you will be traveling through to reach Moscow. Some will come from the east, others from the west, north, south. Once your resistance has been established, we will switch you onto Moscow water. If you adjust to the worst then you can easily take the best.”
“Why don’t you do it the other way around?” asked Rone. “Why not start with a high-grade water which in itself might be hard to drink and then slowly work down the grades?”
“That would of course make more sense—if we had the time. But we don’t. Most of you will get alone fine, I would guess. However, one or two are in for a few bad days. Shall we begin?”
Buley put the two large water distillers into operation. When he had about fifty gallons of pure water he poured them into ten five-gallon containers.
“Let’s begin with you,” directed the professor. He went through his specimen bottles and took out two. He read the charts and went back into the chemical lab. He returned with a trayful of apothecary jars filled with different chemicals. Meticulously he added the formula ingredients to one can. He waited until the elements dissolved and then poured Rone a large tumbler.
“It’s not quite the real thing,” Buley said apologetically. “But it should do the trick.”
Rone drank it down. It didn’t taste different from any other water.
“Now I think you had better toddle off to bed. Don’t drink anything else. We’ll know by morning if you’re immune.”
Rone got his answer in the middle of the night.
13
Matriculation
At six-thirty the next morning Rone made his way down to the dining room. He was still sick. The Highwayman, Ward, Janis, B.A., T.E. the Warlock and Professor Buley were already seated at the table. So were four additional men. The Highwayman quickly introduced them as the Casket Maker, the Ditto Machine, the Priest, Clocker Dan and the Transom Man. Rone was in no condition to remember names. When he looked down at his plate he felt even worse. One single dried fish and two roots was all that was in front of him. No knife, fork, or spoon, no juice or coffee; just a dried fish and two roots.
“And now, gentlemen,” Buley said, standing, “for your first home-cooked Russian meal. In front of you you will see the sumptuous fare of that part of the USSR you supposedly come from. The water in your glass, for those of you who have water, is also of that area. Drink that later, since Russians do not use such liquids with meals. Some of you have beer, others wine or milk. Some of you have eating utensils, others do not. Those of you with forks please place them in your left hand. The Russians eat continental-style, except in regions from which none of you come. Now do like me.”
The Puppet Maker proceeded to demonstrate the table manners of the various regions. He also displayed how to eat without utensils. He picked up a dried fish, bit off the head and swallowed it. He began chewing on it much as a child would eat a Good Humor.
Rone picked up the fish and took one bite before abruptly pushing his chair back from the table. After breakfast they withdrew to the adjoining study for Russian coffee. The Highwayman got up and officially welcomed everyone. He explained that the group had been brought together for a specific mission.
“The project will have three phases,” he told them. “Training, Interior Action, and Exterior Action. All of you will participate in the Training and Interior Action. Only some of you will be asked to participate in the overseas operation. This is a matter of circumstance rather than failings on any of your parts. Each of you is a specialist, but we still must determine our action plan and which of your skills will be required. For reasons of security no one will know the exact objective of the mission until the latest possible moment. Knowledge or lack of knowledge of this objective will in no way indicate you are, or are not, being selected to go on the expedition.”
Ward took the floor next and reviewed the financial arrangements. Everyone in the room would receive the base payment of one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. Those who were selected to go on the expedition would receive an additional hundred and twenty-five thousand as a danger bonus if they accomplished their objective. There was also the possibility of uncovering a cache during their mission of another million dollars or so. This would be thrown into the pot and divided by those who were selected for the expedition. There were grave risks involved. Some might not make it out.
“If we don’t make it out, will we handle the danger pay and additional money in the usual way?” asked the Priest.
“That’s up to all of you,” Ward answered.
“I’m for the usual way,” the Casket Maker let it be known.
“The usual way,” Ward explained to Rone and B.A., “is that only the survivors of the expedition share in anything above the basic guarantee. They can decide among themselves whether they want to give anything to those who stayed behind or to the relatives of those who might be lost.”
“It’s superstition, boys and girls,” Janis added. “Superstition says this is the best way to handle it.”
Ward asked for a vote. The first eight men raised their hands in approval of survivors take all. Rone and B.A. made it unanimous.
Ward next explained the domestic operation. The Tillinger mansion would be manned by a hand-picked staff that would arrive the following day. The house behind it, the one they were now in, would be the security area. It was completely restricted to the people in the room and those few specialists from the Tillinger mansion who were required from time to time. The Tillinger mansion was mainly clerical. The heartbeat of the project would be where they now were.
“How big a staff will be moving into the mansion?” asked the Casket Maker.
“Sixty-five,” answered Ward.
“Do they know what we’re about?” asked Clocker Dan. He was a jolly little man no more than five feet six. A blue silk ascot was tucked into his expensive tweed jacket. A blue silk handkerchief peeked from his breast pocket. He wore dark cashmere trousers and brown suede shoes. His hair was silver and his face round and red. With a white beard, Rone thought, he would look like Santa Claus.
“The staff are all selected intelligence personnel on loan to us from various organizations. They know they are on a high-classification project, but that is all.”
“Even so,” pointed out the Priest, “those who work in the labs or special sections are bound to get some idea of what is happening.”
“That’s true,” answered Ward, “but we’ve taken two precautions. First, the staff is exceedingly large, so no one will have to work in more than one area, and secondly, they will not be able to leave the house individually.”
“That protects us during our stay here,” the Priest said, “but what happens when we go over the line?”
“As I said before, they are all volunteers. They have agreed to quarantine until we have returned or are captured.”
Training would not begin until the following morning. Rone spent the afternoon checking in more equipment and helping the Ditto Machine orga
nize his ultramodern printing and engraving shop. Crates of Russian paper of every description were unpacked and catalogued, the same paper that the Soviet government used for passports, money and a dozen official documents. Even the inks had been procured in Russia.
In the evening Janis and Rone helped B.A. unpack and catalogue five television cameras, ten television sets, and quantities of recording and movie equipment. As Rone was going through the receipts he noticed an item for two truckloads of a new transparent plastic board. The purchase price was listed at seventy-five thousand dollars.
It was past midnight before Rone got to his room on the fifth floor. He showered and was prepared for bed when he heard the knock. He opened the door. B.A. came in.
“Is anything the matter?” he asked.
She shook her head without speaking.
“Come in. Sit down.”
Once again she shook her head, making the long soft hair swirl about her features.
“Then just stand there,” Rone told her gently.
“I’ve never been away from home,” she said quickly. “I’ve never been away from home and I’ve never done any of those—those other things my father talked about. You know. Those physical things. I told him I had, but I haven’t.” She turned and ran from the room.
14
Yorgi Ivanovitch Davitashvili
Breakfast was at six-thirty A.M., and for Rone it consisted of one small bowl of kasha. The typewritten description beside it explained that it was the equivalent to American hot cereals. Rone had grown so hungry that even the coffee tasted good.