Legacy of a Spy

by Henry S. Maxfield

  He turned to the left ski and ran his fingers, which were getting cold in the shade of the forest, along the edges. Between the binding and the bottom, he felt a raised place and went back over the area. He tried, unsuccessfully, to get his fingernails under the edge. He felt around on the other side of the binding, felt what he believed to be a corresponding depression and pushed. The piece stuck fast for a moment and then pushed out on the other side. Slater pulled out what looked like a tiny drawer. If the previous user had been more careful in replacing it, Slater doubted that he would have discovered it.

  Inside the drawer was a carefully folded piece of paper. When Slater unfolded it, he found out it was much larger than he had expected. The message was short, and it was printed in ink. He was surprised that it was in English.

  You were $170 short. I will pick it up thru Rüdi. Have made contact with I.W. If this is such an important job, I’d better have more information. Suggest you get me another contact and more money.

  W.

  I.W. must be Ilse Wieland. There was no longer any question of her involvement. Slater swore. If she knew that he and Carmichael were the same, he would really be in trouble. He had to keep Carmichael from her in the future, whatever else he did. And now the question was what to do about this note. It was obviously from Wyman, and the skis had to be returned as soon as possible. Schlessinger might already be trying to pick them up. He might even be waiting for the attendant in the shabby turtle-neck sweater to point Slater out.

  Slater preferred, whenever possible, to leave his opponents’ mechanism undisturbed, so he could monitor their operations or disrupt them through one of the weaker links. He had an idea for a substitute message that might work to his advantage, but he needed time, and he had neither pen nor paper. So he fitted the note back in where he had found it. Then he looked down through the maze of tall, straight-limbed trees at the crowd of waiting skiers below and tried to make a decision. He deliberately took a cigarette from the chest pocket of his black parka. He stood there in the snow and made himself finish the cigarette, a man in the woods facing an important decision—alone as always.

  He threw the butt into the snow, put on the skis and skied down through the woods and the open field to the cable station. He observed the crowd carefully and for a long time. Then, pulling up the hood of his parka so that only his mouth, eyes and nose were visible, he approached a man who was waiting by himself on the edge of the crowd.

  “Are you German?” Slater asked in German.

  “Yes.”

  The stranger was about Slater’s height and build. He had a black parka tied around his waist. It was much warmer here in the sun.

  “Good,” said Slater. “Then, perhaps, you will do me a favor.” He smiled.

  “Perhaps,” said the stranger, but he didn’t return Slater’s smile.

  “I will pay you,” said Slater, maintaining his friendly expression.

  “What do you want me to do?” The stranger’s eyes were a little more interested now.

  “I want you to return these skis and poles to the ski-rental shack over there.” Slater pointed to the small red building.

  “Why don’t you do it yourself?” The stranger’s eyes were distrustful.

  “I have my reasons. I’ll give you ten American dollars.” Slater took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet. The stranger hesitated.

  “Do the skis belong there?”

  “Yes, and they’ve been paid for,” said Slater.

  “What am I to say, if they ask me anything?”

  “I don’t believe they will ask you anything. If they do, say that you’ve changed your mind, that the line for the cable car was too long.” Slater waited while the stranger tried to decide.

  “And you’ll pay me ten dollars to return skis that you rented?” The stranger was incredulous.

  Slater held out the money, and the stranger took it.

  “There are only two requirements,” Slater said. “First you must return the skis and poles, and second, you must forget that you were not the one who rented them.”

  The stranger stuck his own skis and poles in the snow, picked up Slater’s and trudged off toward the shack. Slater watched him for a moment. The stranger’s general outline and dark brown hair looked very familiar. He was in luck. The stranger’s looks were surprisingly similar to his own. He would make an excellent decoy—for a while anyway. Slater smiled and walked toward the railroad crossing. By the time he had reached it, he had removed his parka. He waited by the track and watched as the stranger disappeared into the shack and came out less than a minute later and crunched back through the snow to his own skis. Slater turned and disappeared into the crowd.

  chapter ten

  SLATER WOULD HAVE LIKED to exploit his discovery of Wyman’s message. Experience had led him to believe that Wyman and Schlessinger, or whatever Schlessinger’s real name was, did not know one another. At least Wyman probably didn’t know Schlessinger. After all, that was one of the basic reasons for establishing a net. The ideal was to have two-way communication, but at the same time have only one man aware of the exact identity of the other. That way, if Wyman were under suspicion by his government and subjected to a thorough interrogation, he couldn’t reveal his superior’s identity. If Slater’s opinion was correct, he had to begin the slow and dangerous process of uncovering link after link in the chain of Communist espionage. If he were to dispose of the skis, for example, he might break Wyman’s only means of communication with Schlessinger and force Schlessinger to get in touch with Wyman directly and reveal himself to Wyman. Then Wyman might be persuaded to tell what he knew. Slater had not disposed of the skis, because Wyman had already asked for a contact in his message, and to upset communications at this point would alarm the Communists at the wrong time, even if they never discovered who was the person responsible.

  Slater returned to the hotel in time for lunch and went directly to the dining room. Ilse Wieland was seated with the Baron von Burgdorf at the corner table, his sausagelike fingers resting on her hand. The sight made Slater wince. As he passed her table, she nodded and smiled; and the Baron lifted his little, pig’s eyes to look Slater over. The look conveyed a careful appraisal and implied in some strange way that Slater had been recorded as so much cash received is recorded in the window of a cash register. The amount appeared briefly and then disappeared, and the little eyes were as blank again as the windows of a vacant house.

  “Please, Herr Slater.” Ilse’s voice stopped him just as he got past their table. “I would like you to meet the Baron von Burgdorf,” she said.

  “Charmed,” said the Baron in English, his expression bland.

  “Sehr angenehm,” said Slater and bowed slightly.

  “You speak German, Herr Slater. That is unusual for an American.” The Baron had switched to German.

  “When in Rome,” Slater shrugged.

  “Yes, of course.” The Baron laughed, but only with his mouth. Any other reaction was smothered in his heavy flesh. He had not removed his hand from Ilse’s.

  “Won’t you join us for lunch, Herr Slater?” said Ilse.

  “Yes, Herr Slater,” said the Baron a fraction of a second later than he should have to make the invitation sound completely genuine. “It would be a great pleasure to talk with an American who really speaks my language.”

  “I’d be delighted, Herr Baron, Fräulein Wieland.” Slater gave another slight bow and seated himself next to Ilse.

  “The Baron,” said Ilse, “is having a big party at the Ehrenbachhöhe Hotel tomorrow night.” Ilse smiled sweetly at the Baron.

  “How nice,” said Slater.

  “The Baron was kind enough to invite me,” she continued, “and when I told him I had a previous engagement, he asked me to invite my escort for the evening.” Ilse turned to the Baron. “Since you have now met my engagement,” Ilse laughed, “you may invite him yourself and have his answer now.”

  “But, of course, Herr Slater.” His voice was smooth and fill
ed with cordiality. “I was about to invite you in any case, but now that I know you will be bringing such a treasure,” he patted Ilse’s hand and smiled at her with his wet lips, “your attendance is essential.”

  Slater immediately wondered if Ilse knew that Carmichael had already been invited and was simply trying to put his alter ego on the spot, or whether she had made up her mind that the best way to watch him was to make him be her escort. He looked from Ilse to the Baron. She obviously wanted him to accept. The Baron wanted him to also now, but—for different reasons? Slater wondered, but even as he wondered, he heard himself accept.

  “I have never been invited to attend the party of a baron before,” said Slater. “I will be delighted to accept.”

  “Good! Very good!” The Baron nodded. “I am very pleased.”

  For the first time, the Baron removed his hand from Ilse’s. Slater wondered if all of this had been engineered for his benefit, although he could see no reason why any man, particularly one like the Baron von Burgdorf, should have to pretend a lascivious interest in Ilse Wieland. The Baron just sat there and licked his lips, as if he found them continually chapped. Ilse’s behavior, on the other hand, was out of character with last night’s performance. Surely, he thought, she must have had enough of men like von Burgdorf.

  “Ah, Baron, have you saved some lunch for me?”

  Slater turned to see the pencil-shaped Englishman whom he had met in the bar the night before. He was wearing perfectly pressed Jaeger beltless slacks, suède shoes and a Tattersall shirt, open at the neck with a Paisley scarf to cover up his thin throat.

  “Sit down, sit down, Mr. Hormsby,” said the Baron. “I assure you, you can have more lunch than you can eat.” The Baron laughed.

  Hormsby sat down next to the Baron. The contrast between the two men was incredible. Slater earnestly hoped that nothing would start Hormsby giggling again.

  Hormsby turned to Slater as if seeing him for the first time. “I don’t believe,” he said to the Baron, “I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Ach, please forgive me, gentlemen. Mr. Slater, Mr. Hormsby.”

  “Delighted,” said Hormsby.

  Slater nodded.

  “You’re an American, aren’t you?” Hormsby said.

  “Yes.”

  “You Americans are so droll,” Hormsby continued. “I met a chap by the name of Carmichael in the bar last night. He had the whole place in an uproar. I tell you, I was fairly screaming.”

  And that’s the truth, Slater thought, and then something Hormsby had just said jarred. He tried to remember carefully, but could not recall ever giving his name to Hormsby. In fact, that was the final stroke that had set Hormsby off. Hormsby had said, “What’s yours?” meaning Slater’s name, and Slater had replied, “Scotch and soda.” And then everyone in the bar had gotten hysterics because of Hormsby’s high-pitched giggle. Slater remembered he had left immediately afterward. Was Hormsby checking on Carmichael? Hormsby could have seen Carmichael talking to Rüdi.

  Slater suddenly began to feel his nerves tighten. It was a reflex, conditioned by past experience. The only thing he could compare it to was his feeling as a schoolboy wrestler, when he had sat with his team on the bench and gotten his first look at his opponent from the rival school—but that had only been a wrestling match. Carmichael’s hours were numbered. He had one more job to perform, and then Carmichael would be finished.

  Slater made his excuses, thanked the Baron for his invitation and left the table. If he was going to keep that rendezvous with Webber, he had to start laying the groundwork immediately.

  chapter eleven

  SLATER WENT OUT into the mid-afternoon sunlight. The sun, unimpeded by any clouds, had drunk heavily of the snow in the village, and the sidewalks and streets were beginning to dry out. There would be little slush left for the night to freeze. Spring was definitely on its way. He went to an outside pay station and phoned his hotel. He recognized Anton’s voice.

  “I would like a room with a bath,” Slater said.

  “For what dates, please?”

  “For a week, starting tonight.”

  “Your name please, sir.” Anton’s patience was obvious.

  “Oh, yes,” Slater gave a nervous laugh. “Excuse me. You can’t very well reserve a room for someone who doesn’t give his name, can you?” Slater laughed again. There was a pause.

  “Your name, sir.” Anton’s patience sounded endless.

  “Oh, yes. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Slater, William Slater. I’m an American,” he added quickly.

  “Yes, sir. Can you check in by five o’clock?”

  Slater looked at his watch. It was already almost three. That didn’t give him much time.

  “Yes, I guess so. I’ll be there.”

  “Very good, sir.” Anton hung up.

  Slater pushed open the glass door of the telephone station and walked back to the hotel. He headed in the direction of the men’s room. He took the moment that Anton’s attention was elsewhere and slipped up the stairs to his room.

  He changed into Carmichael’s clothing and packed his suitcase. After going over his room very carefully to make certain he had left nothing incriminating lying around. He went downstairs to the desk.

  “I would like my bill, please. I’m checking out,” said Slater.

  “I hope you have enjoyed your stay with us, Mr. Carmichael,” said Anton, “and you will remain longer the next time.” His little speech sounded like a broken record.

  “I appreciated your service, Anton,” said Slater.

  Anton’s eyebrows raised. His eyes shouted a warning not to elaborate any further on his “service.” The ten-dollar bribe for the room had certainly not gone to the hotel. Slater looked as if he were about to continue, and Anton presented the bill immediately. He didn’t even count the change until Slater had left. When Anton finally counted the money, it was ten dollars short. Anton’s dead face suddenly became apoplectic. He had to call the assistant and fortify himself with generous shots of Steinhäger in his room.

  Slater got into the Volkswagen, tipped the porter too generously for bringing his suitcase and drove out of the village and onto the main road along the valley floor toward Kirchberg. He parked the car just long enough to get his shoes, pants and sport jackets from his suitcase and close it up again. He removed his hairpiece as he drove; and when he parked, finally, in front of a small restaurant, he changed his elevator shoes before leaving the car.

  The restaurant was deserted, and he went straight into the men’s room, washed his face and changed his clothes. When he emerged, there was still no one in sight! Apparently, the proprietor had decided, from long experience no doubt, that four o’clock was no time for business and had simply left the place unattended. Whatever the reason, Slater was just as well pleased not to bump into anyone, and he got back into the car and drove the rest of the way to Kirchberg.

  He stopped the car once more, while he carefully packed away Carmichael’s things and got out a canvas cover. He shut up the suitcase, locked it and zipped up the canvas cover. The suitcase now looked just different enough not to be obviously the same one Carmichael had carried.

  Slater found a garage and asked the attendant, who looked more like a farmer than a mechanic, to keep the car for him until later that evening. The farmer-mechanic phoned for a taxi; and, eventually, a dilapidated old open touring car, which looked as if it would hold at least twenty people, arrived; and Slater, the driver and the machine, which sounded like a cement mixer, chugged back down the road to Kitzbühel. Slater slipped down in the seat as far as he could when they entered the village, reflecting that he was still five feet above the road and that this was the most spectacular entrance one of the United States’ clandestine counterespionage agents had ever made into any town.

  Several blocks past the Winterhof Hotel, he yelled at the driver to stop, jumped out quickly, paid the driver too much and, shaking his head, walked slowly back to the hotel. It was exactly fiv
e o’clock when he entered, and the Winterhof was packed with returning skiers. Everything went smoothly and he was given room 27 by Anton.

  Slater got out his writing equipment and wrote a letter to George Hollingsworth, via Paris, giving the return address of William A. Slater, Winterhof Hotel, and explaining that Mahler might phone George to say that Carmichael was missing. If so, the phone call was to be believed. Slater arranged the names of the people he suspected into two columns and in the order of what he believed to be their importance and their function. It was rather early in the game to do this, but he had to arrive at some conclusion, no matter how tentative, so that his office and Hollingsworth would not be quite so much in the dark as they had all been when Webber disappeared. Slater asked his office to check on Herr Krüpl, knowing that so much was happening so fast the answer, if they had one, would probably be too late. He asked again for the identity of the German agent, and said that he would okay his office’s giving his identity to German Intelligence. Their agent could identify himself to Slater by saying that he had a message from his friend Ben in Paris. Slater’s reply would be that the only Parisians he knew were female.

  Slater put down his ball-point pen. The letter in front of him was still, apparently, blank, and he had written four pages. He didn’t want to have his real identity known to German Intelligence, but this whole affair was too complicated, and he would need their agent’s help. The intricacies of international relationships were becoming more and more bewildering. Slater was certain he was working against the Communists. He was equally certain he had met some of the people involved, and he had as yet not met a Russian. It was American against American, against German, against an Englishman, against an Austrian. Nor was it simply a question of ideology. Some worked for power, for money, for adventure, and some because they were afraid. The only approach Slater had found satisfactory to unravel his opponents’ networks was to attack them functionally from an organizational point of view. Since the signposts of nationality and ideology no longer had much meaning, Slater had to discern, from his knowledge of espionage patterns, his opponents’ organization. Whenever two or more people worked together, they had to have organization; and the problems, inherent in all espionage activity, were such that all their operations necessarily followed the same general procedures. Slater knew these procedures, and many of their variations. His opponents were ingenious and ruthless, but they made mistakes; and the more people involved in an operation, the more room there was for human error. He watched for, and counted on, these errors. The trouble was they did the same, and he made mistakes. He had already made several. The one that worried him the most was his activation of Rüdi and the receipt of the $170. Slater should have gotten someone else to do that. He should get someone else to meet Webber tonight—Mahler, for example. The Russian Intelligence officers almost never did their own dirty work. Why should he? Suppose Mahler did get killed. Or, even worse, suppose he were to be questioned? He only knew Carmichael, not Slater. This was the dirtiest business in the world. An Intelligence officer’s job was to accomplish his mission and keep out of the hands of the opposition. The end always justified the means. Slater winced. That was what the Communists said about their own aims.