Mine too. I will die with you.”
The song of the very last meeting.
I glanced at the darkened home.
In the bedroom the candles were burning
With an indifferent, yellowish glow.
Gilda’s left ear tickled. The poem made her picture a woman walking into a wintry evening, feeling alone and betrayed. It seemed to tell a sad story about the end of a love affair. This poem must mean something to the Spy Museum ghost, Gilda thought. It must be an attempt to communicate—maybe with Agent Moscow since she speaks Russian.
“Agent Moscow, what do you know about this poet Anna Akhmatova?”
“Not much. I mean, I never heard she was spy or anyting like dat.”
Gilda thought for a moment. “We have some time before the other kids show up. Why don’t we go to my office to look up some information on the computer?”
As she and Agent Moscow walked down the hallway, Gilda heard Janet and Matthew Morrow talking; they were already in the office. She listened for a moment, curious to hear what they were talking about. “So—” said Janet, “got any plans for the weekend?”
Gilda hid just outside the office door and gestured to Agent Moscow to do the same.
“Huh?” Matthew grunted.
“The weekend. Any plans?”
“Not really. How about you?”
“I have an extra ticket for the Shakespeare Theater. I mean, if you’d like to go with me.”
Omigod, Gilda thought. Janet just asked Matthew Morrow to go out with her!
“Oh!” Matthew seemed to realize that he was being asked out on a date. “Hmm. Let me see. I might be busy doing a really long run. . . . Can I get back to you on that?”
Gilda whipped out her notebook.
Clearly, Matthew has no interest in Janet, which isn’t surprising since she reads romance novels on the Metro and has commented that she “hates exercise,” which seems to be Matthew’s main passion in life, aside from researching and writing about the history of spying.
Plus, I have no idea how old Janet really is, but she kind of looks like she could be Matthew’s mom. Maybe she goes for younger men and then makes lots of cipher wheels for their apartments.
“What are you doing?” Agent Moscow whispered.
“It’s important to take notes when spying,” Gilda replied. “Make sure you always have something to write with.”
Janet’s overture had apparently ended all communication between her and Matthew, so Gilda and Agent Moscow breezed into the office to look up information on Gilda’s computer. As the two girls skimmed the contents of several historical websites, Gilda took notes:
Anna Akhmatova—NOTES:
Akhmatova was a Russian poet who was persecuted by the KGB throughout her life.
Interesting fact: a Russian astronomer later named a star after her.
Any resemblance to the Spy Museum ghost? No. We did find one painting of Anna Akhmatova: she had an interesting look, but it definitely wasn’t the same face we saw on the video screens—the “ghost face.” We found no evidence that Anna Akhmatova was a spy.
“It seems like this poem ‘Song of the Last Meeting’ is a clue of some kind,” said Gilda, “but I don’t think we’re dealing with the ghost of Anna Akhmatova. It must mean something else.”
“Excuse me.” Matthew spun around in his swivel chair. “Did I actually hear you say the words ‘dealing with the ghost of Anna Akhmatova’?!”
“Agent Moscow,” said Gilda, “this is Matthew Morrow, the Spy Museum historian. Matthew, I didn’t realize you were eavesdropping on our conversation.”
“In the Spy Museum, everyone eavesdrops,” Janet interjected. “And by the way, Roger also thinks the museum is haunted.” Janet declared this news headline with obvious pride at her insider knowledge, completely unaware that it was Gilda who had put that idea in Roger’s head in the first place. “But April thinks that’s silly,” she continued. “She says Roger is just sleep-deprived and that it’s a prank some of the kids are playing.”
“Sounds like April might be right for once,” said Matthew.
“Janet,” said Gilda, “is there any history of a haunting in the Spy Museum?”
“Not that I know of.” Janet reached into her desk drawer and retrieved a can of Slim-Fast. “But I do believe in ghosts. This city is full of them.” She glanced in Matthew’s direction, as if he might be a ghost himself.
“What do you think, Matthew?” Gilda asked.
“I think I have a lot of real work to do.” His telephone rang. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m getting a lot of calls from the press today. Since nobody inside the CIA will tell them anything, they call the Spy Museum historian with their questions.”
“Well,” said Janet, sticking a straw into her Slim-Fast, “I’ll be seeing you both soon.”
“You will?”
“You know. Spy Camp training this morning?” Janet raised an eyebrow pointedly as if to say, Don’t you even know what’s going on with your campers? How do you function in the world?
“Oh—right.” Gilda suddenly remembered that Janet was going to play the role of an enemy agent in a Spy Camp activity. She’ll probably do a good job in that role, Gilda thought.
Gilda and Agent Moscow left the office to head back to the Venona Room.
On Gilda’s desk, the computer screen displayed the poem “Song of the Last Meeting.” Neither Matthew nor Janet noticed the face that appeared—the eerie eyes that gazed into the room through the words of the poem.
30
Secret Cameras and a Drugstore Fiasco
This woman may look like someone’s grandmother, but she’s actually very dangerous.” Gilda stood in front of her spy recruits displaying a photograph of Janet disguised with makeup and a brown wig. “Her code name is Ms. Frumpus and she’s suspected of selling top-secret intelligence to terrorists and unfriendly foreign governments. Your assignment is to find her, trail her, and capture her on film. In other words, take her picture. But here’s the catch: you need to take her picture before she even notices you looking at her. And I’m going to show you how to do that part in a minute.
“Now, if you find Ms. Frumpus having a meeting or exchanging information with an enemy agent, we definitely want that on film. She might be in disguise, so look very carefully. I should also warn you that she’s known to have a rather surly disposition and she dislikes children, so watch out. Got it?”
Gilda’s team stared at the photo. The recruits nodded silently and Gilda felt satisfied that she had scared them into momentary silence.
“So if we find this Frumpus lady,” James Bond ventured, “what are we supposed to do with her?”
“Team Crypt, what did I just tell you to do?”
“I mean, shouldn’t we try to catch her and put her in handcuffs?”
“Yeah,” said The Misanthrope. “It sounds like we need to get her off the streets, not just take her picture.”
Gilda chuckled, imagining how surprised Janet would be if a group of kids suddenly wrestled her to the ground and placed her in handcuffs.
“For this mission, your job is just to get accurate information by snapping a secret photograph. The actual arrest will be left to Special Operations after you do your job.”
“Ooh, can I be in Special Operations?” Baby Boy pleaded.
“That’s another lesson. This time it’s photography.”
Gilda showed her team the spy gadgets they would use to take their secret pictures: sunglasses with a hidden video recording device, a Cold War-era buttonhole camera, a writing pen that concealed a camera, a tiny Minox camera, and a video camera disguised as a pack of chewing gum. April had hastily showed Gilda how to use each of the gadgets, but while she wasn’t completely confident in her own technical skills, her team didn’t seem the least bit daunted by the devices.
“Now, who wants to try this secret buttonhole camera?”
“OH! OH! OH!!! ME! ME! ME!!!”
“Let me rephrase tha
t question,” said Gilda, holding the buttonhole camera over several sets of outstretched hands. “Who feels sure that he or she can operate this correctly and successfully to capture a clear image of our target and still stay undercover?”
“ME! ME! ME!!!! I DO!!!”
Gilda distributed gadgets and watched her team examine them with a boisterous, clumsy curiosity that made her think of some young chimps she had once observed at the zoo. I guess they’ll learn on the job, she told herself.
TO: TEAM CRYPT
FROM: GILDA JOYCE (“CASE OFFICER ZELDA”)
CC: APRIL SHEPHERD
RE: REPORT ON SPY PHOTOGRAPHY MISSION
EVIDENCE OF SPY DEVELOPMENT: As you made your way to the surveillance location, I was pleased to see that you were always on the lookout for dead drops. In fact, you photographed every empty soda can and bit of dirty paper you came across just in case it was something important. That’s paying attention to the details! (Remember, though: sometimes trash is just trash.)
AREA FOR IMPROVEMENT #1: Failure to keep a low profile. Giggling and chasing each other like baby squirrels as you walk down the street toward the local drugstore draws too much attention. A traveling circus would have been less noticeable. AREA FOR IMPROVEMENT #2: Proper use of spy photography equipment.
The Comedian: you pulled the buttonhole camera from your pocket and openly examined it in full view of customers in the drugstore just to make sure you were pushing the right button.
James Bond: You took numerous pictures of the ground with your Minox camera.
Stargirl: When you wear spy-sunglasses-with-built-in-video-surveillance-camera on top of your head, you end up taking extensive footage of clouds and the sky. It’s pleasant up there, but last time I checked, Ms. Frumpus is not a bird.
AREA FOR IMPROVEMENT #3: Acting normal in public. You had the right impulse to act as if you were shopping in the drugstore, but some of you played the role with a little too much enthusiasm.
The Comedian: Loud comments like “Are there any nasal inhalers in this store? Something for mucus removal? I need a mucus removal system!” draw too much unwanted attention.
AREA FOR IMPROVEMENT #4: Identifying the proper target. You spotted a matronly woman wearing a sunhat and shopping for laxatives, and you brazenly photographed her. THIS WAS NOT THE CORRECT ENEMY AGENT. Incidentally, the real enemy agent (Ms. Frumpus) was offended, because the woman you targeted was at least ten years older than her and about forty pounds heavier. Sure, there was a resemblance, but act carefully and subtly until you’re sure.
MISSION FIASCO:
1. Matronly lady complains to store manager that youngsters are making fun of her purchases.
2. Store manager tells recruits to leave.
3. Agent Frumpus stands in the corner eating graham crackers out of a box. She giggles as she watches the entire mission implode.
OVERALL ASSESSMENT: You all would have been arrested or worse had this been a real mission.
31
The Interrogation
Wanting to lift her team’s spirits following the failure of their most recent mission, Gilda took her recruits down to the Spy City Café for lunch. Once inside the kitschy, modern restaurant decorated with photographs of real dead-drop locations and other historic spy landmarks in the city, the team turned its attention to ordering hot dogs with spy names like “Havana Dog” and “Red Square Dog.” Gilda noticed Boris Volkov and Jasper Clarke sitting together at a corner table, discussing something. Boris gestured broadly while taking large bites of a hamburger and scribbling notes on a napkin. Jasper Clarke appeared to be doing more listening than talking as he sipped a cup of coffee.
What were the two of them up to? Gilda suddenly wanted to approach their table: she had no idea what she was going to say, but this was a rare opportunity to try to get more information about Boris. After all, Gilda told herself, he’s still a person of interest in connection with the dead drop in Oak Hill Cemetery. I need to check him out more thoroughly.
“Hi, there,” said Gilda, breaking up their conversation with what she hoped looked like a casually friendly impulse.
She immediately felt awkward; Jasper and Boris looked surprised and not very pleased that she had interrupted their discussion.
“It’s lovely Lady Gilda,” said Boris, tactfully.
“You know our new intern?” Jasper was obviously surprised, and, Gilda sensed, impressed that Boris already knew Gilda.
“Of course. Gilda assisted Mr. Morrow in acquiring the new artifacts.”
“Oh, I see,” said Jasper. “Wonderful additions to our collection.”
“There’s actually something I’ve been meaning to ask you about the artifacts, Mr. Volkov,” said Gilda, realizing she would have to get right to the point. “Your wife told me about the anomalies she experienced during the time you had the artifacts in your home.”
“Did she tiell you about the vodka she drank each time she saw these ‘anomalies’?” Boris winked at Jasper.
“Well, no—but I’m sure that by now you’ve both heard the rumors that the Spy Museum has been haunted ever since we acquired those two objects from Mr. Volkov.”
Boris burst into nervous laughter.
“Actually, I have heard no such rumors, Gilda,” said Jasper, frowning.
How can that be? Gilda thought. Aren’t intelligence officers supposed to know what’s going on all around them? But then, his office is so separate from all the gossip and intrigue; he’d have to set up a surveillance bug to get the scoop on what’s going on inside his own museum.
“Gilda, do you think this can wait for a later meeting? Boris and I are discussing some important plans for a new lecture series.”
Gilda knew she was pushing her luck, but she felt compelled to take a risk. She remembered the phrase from her cryptic dream: You have to hurry. “Just one more question, Mr. Volkov. Are you sure you can’t tell me who those objects belonged to back in Moscow? I know you acquired them from someone in the KGB years ago, but do you know anything at all about the person who owned them—or someone who might have used them in her work as a spy?”
Boris opened his hands in a gesture of equivocation. “It is hard to say what the truth is. During those years, everyone is lying to one another. But—I tiell you what I do know. First, a confession: technically, I stole the artifacts from the office of my boss in the KGB—a horrible man who made everyone around him miserable.” He raised a finger in the air as if to defend himself and emphasize his point. “But when I take these things I knew I was never going back to Moscow again; I thought I may need these things to prove who I am to the Americans—or maybe, who knows, to sell them if I need money. As far as who used them in spying activities? I don’t know. The rumor was that my boss used his girlfriends and maybe even his wife to hielp him conduct missions, secret assassinations, you name it. So maybe it was one of these women he used.”
Interesting, Gilda thought. So are we dealing with the ghost of Boris’s boss’s girlfriend or wife? At the same time, Gilda felt frustrated that nothing in Boris’s story helped her answer her questions about the Anna Akhmatova poem or how any of this connected with the message she uncovered in the cemetery.
Boris glanced around the room nervously, as if worried that he had said too much—worried that some Russian spy in Washington might be trailing him with secret orders to punish him for his defection to the United States—his betrayal of his motherland.
Jasper Clarke also glanced around the room as he leaned back in his chair and dabbed his mouth in an artificial gesture of contented boredom.
As both men were looking away, Gilda seized an opportunity to get a more revealing profile of Boris: she swiped a table napkin upon which Boris had scribbled some notes. She wanted to find out whether there was any possibility that Boris had left the message she found in Oak Hill Cemetery, and she knew his handwriting would help her get to the bottom of that question.
32
The Mind of a Spy
&n
bsp; Well, he’s quite a womanizer,” said Caitlin, peering at the napkin upon which Boris had scribbled a list of book titles among what seemed to be a personal shopping list for a party: the words cocktails, hors d’oeuvres, and cake appeared next to little sketches of cartoon figures with pineapples for heads and large feet. “Or at least he would like to be—that’s for sure.”
“How can you tell?”
“See here? He has a lot of large loops in the lower region of his handwriting. I see that all the time from guys who have girlfriends, but who still try to pick me up at the bar when they write down their names and phone numbers.”
“What else do you see?”
Pushing her cappuccino aside, Caitlin placed Boris’s table-napkin doodles and handwriting next to the photographs Gilda had taken of the dead-drop message. She took a magnifying glass out of her backpack to examine the letters more closely.
“You carry a magnifying glass with you?”
“Gilda, I’m telling you; people come up to me all the time and ask me to look at handwriting samples. ‘Should I hire this person?’ ‘Should I date this person?’ I’m beginning to think I should start charging for my services.”
“But this is free right now, right?”
“For you, it’s on the house. Now,” said Caitlin, “we can obviously see that these two handwriting samples are completely different. Anyone can tell that.”
“But someone leaving a dead-drop message might disguise his handwriting, right?”
“Even when people attempt to disguise their handwriting, they usually give themselves away. Little bits of their own handwriting creep in—a letter here and there, a different stroke. It’s like when an American tries to speak in a British accent: every now and then you’re going to slip a little unless you’re an exceptional actor. Same with handwriting.”
The Dead Drop Page 17