The Dead Drop

by Jennifer Allison

  Colleagues speculate that Trench hoped to develop psychic skills for his own personal benefit, thinking that this would be a huge source of power. “He would have loved to perceive exactly what others were thinking before they spoke and to know if anyone had learned about his secret criminal activity,” speculated Jasper Clarke, a retired CIA intelligence officer who previously worked with Loomis Trench.

  But Trench’s attempts to develop his own psychic skills failed miserably. As a result, he found himself clashing with the program’s emphasis on routine, protocol, and the idea that “anybody can learn the technique” with the right basic aptitude and training and through diligent practice.

  Relegated to the role of supervising and recording the observations of other “remote viewers,” Trench argued that the CIA needed to get some “real” psychics into the program, such as renowned psychic Balthazar Frobenius. “There are people that I believe have special genetic mutations that allow them to perceive information differently,” he wrote in a memo to his supervisors. “If we study people such as Balthazar Frobenius, who has assisted in solving many state and federal crimes nationwide, we may eventually be able to develop a top secret military psychic pill or injection that would enable more ordinary intelligence officers to acquire the brain capability for psychic knowledge.”

  From Trench’s perspective, the fact that the program was eventually exposed and even publicly ridiculed was a direct result of the failure of the CIA to take his advice and bring Balthazar Frobenius on board sooner. The official program folded, but Trench argued that he should be allowed to continue his work on psychic spying in secret.

  Eventually, Trench received some limited funding to hire a handful of psychics, and he wasted no time in bringing Balthazar Frobenius on board. But it was clear that nobody who had aspirations for career growth in the CIA wanted to be connected with the program. The findings Trench put forward in memos identifying specific overseas targets were viewed with the utmost skepticism, regardless of their accuracy.

  Infuriated and humiliated once again, Trench found himself strolling past the Russian Embassy on Wisconsin Avenue more frequently. His wife later remembered how he had compared America to a former friend who had betrayed and humiliated him, and who therefore deserved “some kind of payback.” His journals describe feelings of nostalgia when he walked past his old signal sites—as if he were walking down memory lane, revisiting the favorite haunts of his youth. So far, he had gotten away with his activities as a CIA mole, but he couldn’t resist a compulsion to sell secrets once again.

  One day, a Russian diplomat approached Trench at a local park while he watched his teenage children playing soccer.

  “I know who you are,” she told him. She handed him a business card. The message was clear: either resume sending us some information or be prepared to have your past activities exposed. Be prepared to go to jail.

  “But you don’t understand,” Trench protested. “The program I’m involved in now is different.”

  “What program?” The woman handed Trench a paperback book entitled Surviving the Teen Years: A Parent’s Guide. He opened the cover and saw that the inner pages had been cut out, creating a little hole that contained money—a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills. “We are interested to know whatever you work on.” Her smile was warm. She touched his hand, pressing the book into his palm.

  “Something about her smile made me take the money,” Trench wrote. “I miss feeling like someone believes I know something of value.”

  Trench agreed to leave copies of “remote viewing” reports in a secret location in Oak Hill Cemetery.“The Cold War may be over,” Trench wrote, “but they’re still just as eager to pay for my information.” He made a point of choosing a location near a tomb where Abraham Lincoln’s son was buried during the nineteenth century.

  On a hot July afternoon, Trench parked his car illegally on Wisconsin Avenue, slung his suit jacket over his shoulder to reveal armpit sweat stains and a body that was somewhat pear-shaped due to lack of exercise, then headed toward his signal site—the Alley of the Russian Poets next to Guy Mason Park.

  He had chosen the Alley of the Russian Poets for the simple reason that it was convenient—a short walk for his secret contacts at the Russian Embassy. His handlers could easily incorporate checking for his dead-drop signals as part of a casual outing—a stroll with a baby or a short walk on the way to a nearby restaurant.

  An added benefit of this signal site was the flattery he received from his Russian contacts for his totally unintended tribute to Russian literature:

  Your literary genius and sensitivity continues to impress us! So few Americans appreciate or even know anything about the Russian poets. But we have known for many years that you—the one we think of as THE POET—are different.

  First, you introduce us to the lesser-known words of the eloquent Abraham Lincoln. Who but you would find a way to make a spy communication beautiful and educational as well as cryptic?

  You continue to live up to your code name—THE POET.

  We eagerly await hearing from you again.

  Often, Trench’s messages were encoded within poems or historical letters. The codes were childishly simple, but the literary references were slightly obscure—designed to impress his handlers. The Russian spies had been quick to notice how a few words of praise seemed to double the amount of valuable classified information Loomis provided, so they made sure they piled on the accolades in every correspondence. This flattery was very effective because Trench liked to think of himself as a literary person—someone who might one day write the Great American Novel during his retirement.

  Little did Trench know that the letter encoded within an Anna Akhmatova poem would be his last communication with his Russian contacts. He apparently had some inkling that he was “being investigated,” but he misjudged the urgency of the situation.

  The CIA had received a tip from two undisclosed sources leading them directly to Oak Hill Cemetery, where Trench made his last information drop and was caught in the act. The authorities were there to meet him.

  “We can’t disclose the names of the individuals who led us to Oak Hill Cemetery,” commented a CIA press agent, “but we have a couple people outside the agency to thank for helping us wrap up the case.”

  Gilda smiled as she read the article. When she reached the last paragraph she crossed out the words “a couple people outside the agency” and penciled in “GILDA JOYCE AND BALTHAZAR FROBENIUS!”

  She clipped the article and taped it into her “Summer in D.C.” scrapbook—a book that also contained several pictures of her and Caitlin wearing graphic-print minidresses, grinning broadly, and holding pink mocktails. Gilda looked forward to posting the photos in her school locker in the fall. She chuckled as she turned to a picture of the kids on her spy team. The Comedian, The Misanthrope, Agent Moscow, Baby Boy, James Bond, and Stargirl: all were in disguise, smiling into the camera with their agent files and fake passports in hand.

  Also taped into Gilda’s scrapbook were Polaroid photos of Loomis Trench’s dead-drop messages and the ghostly message that had appeared on the Spy Museum wall. Gilda knew that Loomis’s original, handwritten messages were now preserved in plastic evidence bags at the CIA. Interestingly, the agency had rejected the opportunity to keep the photographs Gilda had taken as part of her own investigation.

  “Aren’t these relevant to the history of the case?” Gilda had asked the CIA intelligence officer who had questioned her about her involvement in the discovery of a mole.

  “Sure,” said the CIA officer, eyeing the photographs warily. “But just between you and me and the lamppost, it’s kind of embarrassing to the agency when a teenage girl discovers a mole inside the CIA. It’s not exactly the kind of public attention we want right now. And—I’m sorry to have to ask this, but we’d really appreciate it if you’d keep your involvement quiet.”

  “What’s so embarrassing about help from a teenage girl?” Gilda persisted, taking
issue with the derisive reference to “a teenage girl”—the implication that it was ridiculous to think that she might have something serious to offer.

  “Look—it’s just something we need to keep under wraps for now.”

  “I see.” Gilda couldn’t help feeling annoyed. While fantasies of newspaper headlines and television interviews celebrating her as a heroine might have been overblown, it still would have been nice to have some public recognition.

  “Don’t be too disappointed,” said the CIA officer. “Rest assured, your talent and spy potential have been noted by people in the agency. Check back with us after college if you’re interested, okay?”

  “Sure,” said Gilda, doing her best to hide her disappointment. “Unless you come to me for more help before then.”

  The CIA officer regarded her with an inscrutable expression. “Thanks,” he said. “We’ll keep the door open.”

  For the moment, Gilda was glad to be far away from spy games. She didn’t even have her usual urge to put on a disguise and peek in her neighbors’ windows. Instead, she wore her bathing suit because she and Wendy had decided to meet at a local swimming pool.

  So far, Gilda had kept her promise; she had refrained from questioning Stephen about whether he liked Wendy as more than a friend. Although she hadn’t yet had a chance to observe interactions between Wendy and Stephen (something she looked forward to doing), as far as Gilda could tell, there had been no significant developments in her brother and her best friend becoming a couple after math camp ended. We’ll see what happens when we’re back in school, Gilda thought.

  Gilda grabbed her beach towel, suntan lotion, and city bus pass and tucked the “Summer in D.C.” scrapbook under her arm, planning to share the pictures with Wendy. I’m almost glad the CIA didn’t offer me a job right away, she thought. If they had, I wouldn’t be able to tell Wendy all my experiences without worrying that I’m giving away classified information.

  Gilda ran out the front door, simply looking forward to seeing an old friend who had known her for ages—a friend who preferred true stories to the “perfect cover.”

  Acknowledgments

  While the story and characters in The Dead Drop are fictional, most of the historical details mentioned in the book are true. Most important, the setting depicted here is a very real and wonderful place: Washington, D.C.’s International Spy Museum. This novel wouldn’t have been possible without the help of friends at the Spy Museum who shared their extensive knowledge and expertise, and who allowed me access to some of their outstanding programs for kids of all ages, including “Spy Camp.” In particular, I would like to thank Youth Education Manager Jackie Eyl—a master of disguises, gadgets, and dead drops whose enthusiasm, creativity, and humor come through in every youth program she facilitates. I am immensely grateful to Spy Museum Historian Thomas Boghardt, who is a model of professionalism, objectivity, curiosity, and dedication in his approach to researching and writing about the “secret history” that so often influences the stories that end up in our history textbooks. Thomas expressed support for this book when it was just an idea. He generously shared his knowledge and expertise and contributed to Gilda’s latest adventures by opening up a fascinating world of espionage history. Finally, I would like to thank Peter Earnest, the executive director of the International Spy Museum, who is indeed “a gentleman and a scholar” as well as a former spy. With a career that includes thirty-six years of distinguished service in the CIA, Peter has managed to do the impossible: he combines clandestine service to his country with telling true stories. His contribution to greater openness and to an educated, informed, and engaged public comes through in the Spy Museum’s fascinating lectures, broadcasts, and book events that explore some of the most crucial and controversial events of our time. In short, I discovered that the International Spy Museum is more than a fun diversion during a family trip to D.C. (and it is immense fun!): it has an educational mission that greatly impressed me. Through my contacts with so many impressive and genuinely helpful people, I became all the more excited to give Gilda Joyce a chance to have her own adventure at the Spy Museum firsthand.

  The Dead Drop was written during a year when I had three toddlers in the house, and I have to acknowledge that every time I took out my computer to write, Max, Marcus, and Gigi were more than eager to “help.” Sometimes they just wanted to look at pictures of trucks and helicopters, but they also did their best to put their mark on Gilda’s story. Because of this, I am also all the more grateful to my lovely editor, Maureen Sullivan, who is charming, patient, insightful, and always kind. Maureen always projects a sense of peace and calm that helped me almost as much as her great editorial suggestions did. Thanks also to my husband, Michael, who kept the household running and mostly kept his sense of humor during many hours when I was writing. And as always, I am indebted to my stellar agent and dear friend, Doug Stewart, who has an expert sense of what works in a good story and who has opened up so many opportunities for me to connect with the fabulous readers of the Gilda Joyce series. Julia Uspaskikh and her family contributed their knowledge of life in Russia to the story. Finally, I would like to thank my father, Professor Kenneth Brostrom, who contributed a beautiful translation of a poem by the Russian poet Anna Akhmatova to this story, with input from his colleague Dr. Laura Kline of Wayne State University in Detroit. Thank you, Dad, for always valuing the writing life.