The Spy Who Read Latin

And Other Stories

Edward D. Hoch

Contents

The Spy Who Came to the Brink

The Spy Who Read Latin

The Spy Who Traveled with a Coffin

The Spy Who Collected Lapel Pins

The Spy Who Came Back from the Dead

The Spy Who Came to the Brink

THE GIRL WAS SLENDER and darkhaired, and very petty. “I feel like a fool,” she told Rand, gazing across the desk with uncertain eyes.

“Nonsense,” he reassured her. “You did the right thing in reporting it. Now suppose you start at the beginning and tell me everything that happened.”

“That’s the trouble. Nothing happened except that I saw this man taking a wax impression of the lock—the way they do in the movies, and—”

Rand smiled slightly. “You haven’t even told me your name, or where you work.”

“What? I thought my boss phoned you.”

“I’d like to hear it all from you, if I may. From the beginning.”

She shifted in the chair and crossed her legs. “Well, my name is Audrey Fowler, and I’m a pool typist in the Foreign Office. I’ve been there nearly three years and I like it a lot. The girls are so friendly, and there are lots of handsome men—”

Rand cleared his throat. “About yesterday.”

“Oh! Yes. I don’t usually work on Sundays, of course, but with all those television people around—”

“What television people?”

“They’re filming a show about diplomats and they got permission to take some shots in the Foreign Office lobby. I guess then they go back to the studio sets for the office scenes. Some of us had to be there, anyway, to help out.”

“Are you an American, Miss Fowler?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“You talk a little like one.”

“I was born right here in London. But I see a lot of American movies.”

“Go on,” he urged. “I’m sorry I interrupted.”

“Anyway, I was coming out of the office on the second floor when I saw this man. He was at the door to the restricted wing, where the Message Center is. He took something out of the lock and dropped it very carefully into a little plastic bag. Honest, it was just like in the movies!”

Rand nodded. “A wax-coated blank key, probably. Do you know what’s kept in the Message Center?”

“Lists of embassy personnel in various countries, teletype machines—”

“Anything else?”

“Well, the diplomatic code—oh, the code book! I’ll bet that’s why they sent me to you!” She glanced over her shoulder at the frosted-glass door with the words Department of Concealed Communications neatly lettered on it.

Rand shifted in his chair and lit an American cigarette, one of his few vices. “What did the man do when you saw him?”

“He said good afternoon and went back downstairs, as if it was nothing at all.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“Of course I recognized him! That’s the whole point of it!”

“And who was he?”

“Barton O’Neill, the television actor. Why do you think Barton O’Neill would want to steal the diplomatic code?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Rand said.

Rand rarely ventured into the other departments of British Intelligence, because his job was concerned more with words than with people. But men like Hastings were always glad to see him.

“Well, Rand, how’ve you been?”

“Good as ever.” He shook the hand of the balding man.

“What’s up? You usually bring trouble.”

Rand laughed. “Not this time. I only want some information. About a television actor named Barton O’Neill.”

“Officially or unofficially?”

“Let’s start with the official information.”

Hastings shrugged, pretending indifference. “He’s a character actor on television, bit parts mostly. Age forty-five, divorced twice.”

Rand reached for a cigarette. “Now the unofficial part.”

“We’ve suspected for some time that Barton O’Neill is one of the smartest foreign agents now operating in London. We think he’s available to the highest bidder, with most of his work done for Moscow or Cairo.”

“You haven’t arrested him?”

“He’s too clever for that. We had proof on only one job, but there were political reasons for not arresting him. Actually, we’ve never caught him violating the Official Secrets Act.”

“He’s British?” Rand asked.

The balding man nodded. “Did you ever hear of the Legion of Saint George, later called the British Free Corps? It was an attempt by the Germans during World War II to enlist British war prisoners to fight on the Russian front. It was mainly a propaganda effort, and only a few dozen men joined up. Several of them were tried for treason after the war, but we never had enough evidence against O’Neill. We’ve kept our eye on him ever since, though.”

“Interesting.”

“Now it’s your turn, Rand. What’s he up to?”

“One of the typists at the Foreign Office claims she saw him taking a wax impression of a lock there yesterday.”

Hastings didn’t seem surprised. “Since you and Double-C are interested, I gather the diplomatic code must be involved.”

“It seems to be. I always thought the security arrangements there were safe enough. There’s a twenty-four-hour guard in the lobby to check passes, and a locked door leading into the restricted wing. Then there’s a guard at the door of the Message Center and people working inside day and night. Of course all personnel are carefully screened.”

“And the code books?”

“They’re constantly in use, so they’re not locked up regularly. There’s one on each of the six desks in the Center, where people are on duty at various hours. Messages come in from embassies constantly. They’re decoded at the Center and sent upstairs by pneumatic tube.”

Hastings scratched his head. “How did O’Neill get by the guard in the lobby?”

“He’s apparently part of a television company that had permission to film in the lobby. With so much confusion it would be simple for him to slip away for a few minutes.”

“Aren’t those people screened before permission of that sort is granted?” Hastings asked querulously.

“Do you have any idea of the number of people necessary to produce a television show? It would take a month to check them all, and then who would you exclude? A security risk can include anyone from an outright spy to a homosexual or a neurotic. Besides, I assume the Foreign Office regarded their code books as quite inviolate.”

“If he made a wax impression, he must be planning to return.”

Rand nodded. “I already checked. The television company winds up its shooting on Wednesday evening, after regular office hours. Barton O’Neill is almost certain to try for a code book then, if he’s going to try at all.”

“Even though this girl recognized him?”

“He’s a bit player. He probably doesn’t realize he was recognized by a film and television fan.”

“Even after he gets through that locked door to the restricted wing, how can he walk past the inside guard and into the Message Center where people are always working, and then out again with a thick code book under his arm?”

Rand chewed on his lower lip. He was thinking of a man named Taz in Moscow who would give a great deal to be able to read the coded messages which passed between British embassies throughout the world. “That’s what we’ll find out Wednesday night,” he said. “And I’ll be there myself to give O’Neill a little surprise.”

On Wednesday evening Rand felt good. The February air was sharp but clear, and for the first time in weeks his annual sinus attack seemed to be easing. The work at the office was well under control, and the minor irritation of an actor named Barton O’Neill promised to be cleared up with ease.

Rand had stationed one of his best men—a young fellow named Parkinson—inside the lobby of the Foreign Office, and he himself would be watching O’Neill’s arrival with the other actors and technicians. When the actor used his duplicate key to enter the restricted wing, he’d be arrested on the spot. A simple affair, really, thanks to the girl’s report.

Rand stood in the shadow of a little bookstore opposite the Foreign Office, waiting for O’Neill to appear. A few people hurried by, bound for a late dinner or the theater, but mainly the street was empty. Most of the halls of government had long since closed for the night.

The Double-C man recognized O’Neill almost at once. He was walking alone, carrying the sort of attaché case popular with diplomats and American advertising men. He was tall and grayishly handsome, much like the photos Rand had studied for the past two days. He looked like a government official. Or an actor.

Rand moved out to follow him at a distance of a dozen paces. He didn’t see the other man until that man stepped directly in front of Barton O’Neill, materializing out of the shadows like a ghost. The man wore a dark leather jacket with a cap pulled down over his eyes. He might have spoken a word or two to O’Neill, but Rand couldn’t be certain. Then, without warning, the stranger fired two shots through the pocket of his leather jacket.

Barton O’Neill half turned, clutching his chest. The man fired a third time and then Rand was on him, toppling him backward to the pavement. Somewhere a woman screamed, and suddenly the street was alive with panic. Rand brought his fist down on the gunman’s jaw and then tore the weapon free from limp fingers.

Parkinson and a uniformed policeman were already running across the street, fighting their way through the gathering crowd. “What happened?” Parkinson called out.

Rand, catching his breath, looked over at the actor’s crumpled body. “This man shot O’Neill.”

The policeman knelt for a moment, carefully avoiding the spreading pool of blood, and then shook his head. Barton O’Neill was dead, and the game was ended—and yet Rand had the gnawing feeling that he had witnessed a carefully planned drama that he didn’t even begin to understand.

For most of Thursday the head of Double-C tried to ignore it. O’Neill’s murder might only have been the work of some would-be bandit, or even of a wronged husband. There was no reason why it had to be connected with the actor’s attempt to steal the diplomatic code. None at all.

All morning had been spent inspecting the extremely interesting contents of O’Neill’s attaché case. There was a carefully made duplicate key to the locked door on the second floor of the Foreign Office. There was a man’s black wig, a pair of bushy false eyebrows, two tubes of makeup, and a small metal mirror. There were three large candid photographs of a man identified as James Corbin, an employee of the Foreign Office Message Center.

And last, there was a book about the size of a desk dictionary, carefully bound in impressive black cloth, and filled with 882 pages of recipes and cooking suggestions.

“A cook book?” Parkinson asked, somewhat unbelieving.

Rand nodded. “But a specially bound cook book. The binding is almost identical with that of the diplomatic code books, and the size is the same too. I think we can piece together his plan. During a lull in the filming downstairs, he’d slip up to the second floor, just as he did on Sunday. In the stairwell he’d open his case and make himself up to look like James Corbin, one of the employees on the day shift. Then he’d simply unlock the door, walk past the inner guard with a mumble, go to Corbin’s desk, and switch this cook book for one of the real code books. It would go into the attaché case, and he’d be out of there in a couple of minutes. Anyone on duty in the room would probably be too busy to give him more than a glance.”

Parkinson shook his head. “He couldn’t have gotten away with it.”

“That’s something we’ll never know. He obviously thought he could. Check on this Corbin fellow right away, will you?”

Parkinson returned in an hour with the news that James Corbin—the real James Corbin—was vacationing in the south of France for two weeks.

“But,” Parkinson argued, “the inside guard would have asked him why he wasn’t away on his holiday. He’d have had to say something—and how do we know he could imitate Corbin’s voice well enough?”

“He was a character actor as well as a secret agent. We’ll have to assume he thought he could bring it off. He was in the building and he had a key, and that would have automatically cancelled out a lot of suspicion. He must have met Corbin at some time, though—perhaps over a few beers at a pub one night. Maybe that’s how he learned about the size and binding of the code books, if he didn’t learn it from another agent. We’ll have to question Corbin when he returns. Even a completely trustworthy person can let things slip at times.”

Toward mid-afternoon a phone call from Scotland Yard brought news of O’Neill’s killer. He was a suspected Communist named Ivar Kaden, an unemployed dock-worker with a long criminal record. On the morning of the murder he’d been visited at his flat by a minor official of the Russian Embassy.

“All right,” Rand conceded reluctantly to Parkinson. “So the Russians order a man killed just as he is about to steal our code book for them. Why? Was it a mistake, or what?”

“They don’t make many mistakes, sir,” Parkinson said.

“Then why did they have O’Neill killed?”

“Because he knew too much. Spies always know too much.”

“Too much about what?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Rand was still enough under forty to resent being called “sir,” but he never corrected Parkinson. The fellow did his job, and he was acquiring a good knowledge of the intricate world of Concealed Communications. But just then Rand wanted to think, so he sent Parkinson away.

Alone, staring out the window at the great sweep of the muddy Thames, he wondered how the weather was in Moscow that day. He often wondered about Moscow, and sometimes he tried to visualize the man in the Kremlin who was his counterpart. He knew nothing about Taz except his name, which was the same as a river in western Siberia. Sometimes he pictured a gentle little man who worked eight hours a day over coded messages and secret writings, and then took the Moscow subway home to a wife and four waiting children. On days like this, though, when Taz became the shadowy figure on the other side of a giant chessboard, Rand pictured something quite different.

Was it Taz who had pressed a button in Moscow and ordered the death of Barton O’Neill on a London street? The same Taz who went home every night to his wife and four waiting children? Rand sighed; he knew there were men in London and Washington and Paris who did the same thing.

There was a soft knock on the frosted-glass door and Hastings entered, carrying a folder of reports. “I have an idea about this O’Neill thing,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Well, he was an actor. And actors often have stand-ins or doubles, don’t they? Look, the Russians have been after one of those code books for five years now. They certainly wouldn’t murder the one about to get it for them, would they? I think the man they killed was O’Neill’s double, and the whole thing was some sort of diversion to cover the real theft of a code book.”

Rand smiled. “They’ve checked the dead man’s fingerprints. It was O’Neill, all right. Besides, a bit-part character actor wouldn’t be likely to have a double.” He paused to light a cigarette. “In any event, I was prepared for a possible diversion. The real code books were moved to a room upstairs on Monday. The Message Center has just been going through the motions since then, sending messages upstairs still encoded.”

“Maybe that’s it,” Hastings said. “The Russians found out you were setting a trap and killed O’Neill.”

But Rand would have none of it. “Everyone in that Message Center is completely loyal—I’d stake my life on it. Besides, if there is a spy there, O’Neill’s complex plot would have been completely unnecessary.”

“What about the girl who saw O’Neill taking the impression of that lock?”

“Audrey Fowler? We’ve checked her. She’s a bit naïve, but perfectly trustworthy. She’d hardly have reported O’Neill in the first place if she weren’t.”

“So what do we have?”

Rand shrugged. “A dead spy.”

“Why?”

“Perhaps because he knew too much. About something.”

The next day, Friday, Rand went down to visit Ivar Kaden in jail. He interviewed him in a bare room with pale green walls and barred windows. The man was sitting across the table while a guard stood silently with his back to the door.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Rand began.

Kaden was stocky with middle age, and a shadow of beard traced itself across his cheeks. “You’re the one jumped me the other night,” he said, and his muscles seemed to ripple at the recognition.

“It was my job,” Rand told him. “The same as your job was killing Barton O’Neill.”

“You’re bloody right! That was my job and I did it.”

“How much did they pay you?”

A sly smile now. “Enough.”

“Why was he killed?”

“Look, mister, I don’t ask questions and I don’t answer them. I do my job, that’s all.”

“Are you a Communist, Ivar?”

The bulky man shifted in his chair, looking at his hands. “I guess so. I guess I would be if I knew what they were talking about.”

“Who paid you to kill O’Neill?”

His eyes came up to meet Rand’s. “Do you really think I’ll tell you, mister?”

“You don’t have to, Ivar. We know the orders came from a Russian agent. Just one thing—did they tell you when to shoot him?”

Ivar Kaden hesitated and then said, “Before he went into the Foreign Office on Wednesday night.”

“Yes,” Rand mumbled to himself. “Before.” He got to his feet and motioned to the guard. “I’m finished. You can take him back.”

Rand left the building and drove back to his office. He phoned the Foreign Office to check once more on the code books; all were safe. He had to face the fact that Barton O’Neill had been killed by the Russians at the very moment he was about to perform an important and vital mission for them.

There seemed only one possible explanation—that they had feared a trap and killed O’Neill to keep him from talking. But what could the actor tell? He was not a regular Communist agent—more of a freelance operator who sold his secrets to the highest bidder. It was doubtful that he would know any more about the secret workings of the Soviet espionage network in England than was already on file at British Intelligence.

Sitting alone in his office, Rand had almost decided to drop the investigation. After all, the code was safe, the spy was dead, the assassin was in prison. What more was there to do? Did it really matter why they’d had him killed?

Parkinson came in with a report. “This man from the Russian Embassy,” he began, eager to deliver his news. “British Intelligence has a constant watch on him. His name is Barsky, and he’s a known agent.”

“That’s the one who visited Ivar Kaden on Wednesday morning?”

Parkinson nodded. “But more important, a man believed to be O’Neill was seen in a pub with Barsky on Monday. Does that help?”

“It only confirms what we already suspected,” Rand told him. O’Neill must have got the idea of going after a code book when he landed the part in this television play being filmed in the lobby of the Foreign Office. He must have already known there was a man in the Message Center whom he could impersonate. And once he got that impression of the lock on Sunday, he knew the last obstacle to a code book was removed. So on Monday he made his offer to the Russian contact man.”

“The Embassy sent the word to Moscow—to Taz, probably—and the word came back to kill O’Neill. Does that make any sense, sir?”

Yes, Rand conceded to himself, they were back to the same puzzle. “Many things don’t make sense in this business, Parkinson,” he replied weakly.

“Perhaps they thought he already had one of the code books. Using the key and his disguise, he could have entered the building at any time.”

Rand shook his head. “One thing we failed to find in his attaché case was any sort of false identification. He apparently was unable to forge the necessary pass to get him past the guard in the lobby. He could only work his plan when he was already inside the lobby with the television crew. Since he had to have time to make the duplicate key, he couldn’t try for a code book until Wednesday night.”

“Without identification, how could he have gotten by the second guard, at the Message Center door?”

“You know how those things are, Parkinson. The first guard would have been a lot more careful than a guard checking on only a half dozen people he sees every day. Once through that locked door, O’Neill was apparently sure he could bring off the rest of it by using his makeup and his acting abilities.”

“So what have we got, sir?”

Rand closed his eyes. “We have an agent with a better-than-even chance of stealing one of our diplomatic code books and getting away with it. Although it would be tremendously important to the Russians to get their hands on it, they have the man killed just before his mission is accomplished. Why?”

Why? The question remained, even after Parkinson had left the office. Rand sat brooding about it in silence, knowing that he could never drop the case until he knew the answer. He thought of talking to the girl at the Foreign Office again, but somehow he knew the answer didn’t rest there.

He went to the window and pressed his forehead against the cold glass, staring out at the muddy Thames, trying to put himself in the place of a man in Moscow whom he’d never met.

Why did they kill him? Because he knew too much? No.

Because he knew too little?

Rand’s head came away from the window and he snatched up the telephone. “This is an emergency! Get me the Foreign Secretary!”

“Too little?” Hastings repeated later, not sure he understood.

Rand nodded from behind a cloud of relaxed cigarette smoke. “O’Neill was killed because he knew too little, not too much. I knew the code book had to be involved somehow, and then I remembered an incident in World War II. A team of American and British cryptanalysts broke the code used by Japanese military attachés. But the OSS wasn’t informed of this, and they managed to steal a copy of the code book in Lisbon. Of course the Japanese immediately stopped using the stolen code—and the cryptanalysts had to start all over again!”

“You mean the Reds…?”

Rand nodded and poured some brandy. “I’m sure of it. Remember, we’ve been using that same diplomatic code for five years. Sometime in those five years Taz’s people broke it. Now, what would you do, Hastings, if you were sitting in Moscow with our secret diplomatic code broken, reading our messages every week, and some free-lance agent you couldn’t control said he was going to steal that very code for you?”

Hastings nodded, seeing it all clearly. “Even if he got away with it, we’d have discovered the theft in a couple of hours or days and promptly changed the code. And they couldn’t just order him not to steal the book, because he’d have done it anyway and sold it to another government. All they could do is what they did—kill him before he stole it.”

“A dirty business,” Rand said, staring out at the lights of the London night. “Dirty.”

“What will you do now?”

Rand took a sip of brandy. “I’ve already done it. Our embassies switched to an emergency code book this afternoon. Taz is in for a surprise when he tries to decode the next message.”

The Spy Who Read Latin

BY THE FIRST LIGHT of the new day the airport at Tirana presented a grubby appearance from above. The patchwork runways had been lengthened to accommodate the regular jet nights from Phnompenh and Shanghai, but otherwise little had been done to improve facilities since the last time Father Howard had passed through. That had been so many years ago, and now he was going home—to Paris and then to London.

But first there was the stop at Tirana, a sleepy little city set among the Albanian hills. It was the capital of the country, but somehow from the airport it reminded him more of the Chinese villages he’d known so well.

He’d expected the ring of alert soldiers that surrounded the big jet as it coasted to a stop. Things were like that in Albania today. Watching them now with their carbines poised, Father Howard reflected on the vagaries of a political climate that could ally two such nations as little Albania and giant Communist China.

Presently a gloomy little man in a long leather coat boarded the aircraft and followed the stewardess quickly down the aisle to his seat. “Your passport, please,” he said in thickly accented English.

Father Howard looked up at him, trying to smile. “I’m traveling from Shanghai to Paris,” he said. “My passport is not valid in Albania.”

“I must ask you to come with me to the Administration Building,” the gloomy man said.

“But—”

“Only a formality.”

Father Howard glanced out again at the grim circle of soldiers. Then he sighed, shrugged slightly to his traveling companion, and followed the man in the leather coat down the aisle. The dampness of the Albanian weather cut through him as soon as they stepped outside. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“You were a missionary priest in China?” the man asked as they crossed the long stretch of patchwork asphalt in the direction of the Administration Building.

Father Howard avoided a shiny puddle. “A long time ago. Things have not been easy for us in recent years.”

The man grunted and kept walking. It was then that Father Howard happened to glance back at the waiting plane and saw his battered old carpetbags being lifted from the luggage compartment. “You’re taking my baggage!” he gasped, and turned to retrace his steps.

He was striding purposefully toward the big jet when the two bullets hit him in the back of the head, and then he knew no more…

The meeting which had brought Rand to the divided city of Berlin was one of the strangest in his career as head of Concealed Communications. He’d hardly believed the first messages when they’d been decoded, and even now as he crossed into East Berlin in an unmarked sedan, he knew he might be heading into a well-baited trap.

It was April in the city, and the misty rains of springtime sent a shiver down his spine. He left the car not far past the checkpoint and went the rest of the way on foot, as instructed.

Finally he reached the corner and stopped to light one of his American cigarettes, wondering vaguely if the sudden pale circle of sun meant that the rain was nearly ended. Berlin had always seemed damper than London to Rand, though he knew it was not the case. Perhaps it was only the mood of the place, with its great gray wall splitting the face of the city’s daily existence.

“Mr. Rand, please?” a young boy asked at his elbow. “Follow me, sir.”

Rand followed without a word as the tassel-haired youth led him into a shabby structure halfway down the next block. It was a store of sorts, selling tobacco and magazines, in a dank building that still bore visible scars of a war a generation past. The boy motioned to a back room and departed.

Rand stepped carefully through the doorway, trying to still the throbbing of his heart. There was only one man in the room, seated at a low table facing him. “Ah! And you would be Mr. Rand!”

“Taz?” Rand seated himself and studied the face of the man who had asked to meet him here. It was a face that British Intelligence would once have paid a fortune to see, the face of a Russian named Taz who headed up the Moscow equivalent of London’s Department of Concealed Communications.

It was a thin face, with a pointed jaw and deep blue eyes, and Rand judged the man to be about his own age—in his early forties, perhaps a bit older. He had thin smooth fingers to match the face, and graying hair that swept back from his forehead. When he spoke, his English was accented but quite intelligible.

“I had never thought we would some day meet, Mr. Rand.”

“Nor I. You’ve given me many sleepless nights.”

“I have tried,” Taz admitted with a slight smile. “We have great admiration for the Double-C Man.”

“I had trouble getting here,” he told the Russian, because it was true. “They were certain your message was a trap of some sort.”

“And yet you came?” Taz asked, his blue eyes flashing in the room’s dim light. Rand could imagine the man bent over a cryptogram, studying frequency tables or captured code books.

“I came. I told them I could be killed or kidnaped on the streets of London, if that was what you wanted.”

Taz nodded. “You are a wise man—the man I expected you to be. I too had difficulties. There are many in the Kremlin who oppose this meeting.”

“And just what is the reason for it?” Rand asked.

“Our interests lie along parallel lines.”

“In what way?”

“You know of Father Howard, the English missionary priest who was killed last week in Tirana?”

Rand knew. “He was returning to England after twenty years in China. They took him off the plane and murdered him.”

Taz nodded slightly. “Albania is a close ally of China. Someone in Peking ordered his murder after he’d left the country.”

Rand decided he could admit to a little knowledge. “The word is he was carrying an important document.”

The blue eyes flashed again. “He was carrying a report he had prepared on the inner workings of China’s Communist Party hierarchy. It is said to outline the current power struggle and to give an indication of which leaders will probably emerge triumphant. It also contains a great deal on the future course of Sino-Soviet relations, as well as some information of a highly personal nature concerning certain key Chinese leaders.”

Rand ground out his cigarette. “You know a great deal. That report would have made interesting reading.”

“It still could,” Taz said. He picked up a pencil and tapped it nervously against the table. “They removed Father Howard’s luggage from the plane, but they did not find the report. You see, he had a traveling companion aboard that jet—a former news correspondent named Kane Mander.”

Rand nodded. “And Mander landed in Paris with the report intact. We’ve heard rumors that a man of that name has been offering it for sale.”

“Exactly.” Taz cleared his throat. “You would be willing to act with us against the common Chinese enemy?”

“That would be a matter for London to decide.”

“There is no need for a policy decision,” Taz insisted. “We would be willing to share the contents of the report with your government.”

“Why do you need me?” Rand asked. “Why can’t you just contact Mander and buy it from him?”

“The report was dictated to Father Howard by a highly placed government official shortly before his execution on charges of deviation from party policy. The priest wrote it all down—in Latin.”

Rand thought about that for a moment. “Interesting, but I still don’t see why you need me.”

“The report is for sale in Paris, before the week’s end. My government is more than willing to purchase it, but my assignment is to make certain we get the true report and not twenty or thirty pages of Latin prayers.” He sighed a little. “And that is the problem. Latin is not taught in Russian schools. There is no one in my department who can read it.”

“You must have doctors and lawyers in the government who understand the language.”

The Russian shook his head. “Fewer than you’d think, and no one I could trust.” He smiled lightly. “These days it would be difficult to find a priest who could read it. Father Howard’s skill with the language was somewhat remarkable.”

“So you want me to furnish an agent who can read Latin?”

“Exactly.”

“You’d trust the British before your own people?”

“I would trust you, since it would be to your government’s advantage to have a copy of the report.” He paused and began tapping the pencil again. “The question is, do you have an agent you could trust?”

“I think so,” Rand said. He was remembering a young man named Harry Truce. “Yes.”

“Could you have him in Paris the day after tomorrow? Saturday?”

“Yes,” Rand said. At this point he had nothing to lose and possibly a great deal to gain.

Taz smiled and held out his hand. “Then we are partners?”

“Of a sort,” Rand agreed. “For the present.”

He found to his surprise that he liked the man, and he wondered if he could trust him as well.

Harry Truce had been educated at the best universities to enter the diplomatic corps. It was an occupation his father and grandfather had followed before him, and it was an honorable one. He’d been born of an English father and an Irish mother, brought up partly in London and partly in an unlikely area of Ireland called Macgillycuddy’s Reeks.

Rand never learned at what juncture in Truce’s career the diplomatic service had become subordinated to intelligence work, but he did know that young Truce had shown special skills on a number of recent assignments. He was handsome, unmarried, still in his late twenties, with a vigor that Rand secretly admired. And best of all, he could read Latin.

“It would be a privilege to work with Concealed Communications,” he told Rand the following morning back in London.

Rand smiled and offered one of his American cigarettes. “Glad to have you aboard, as they say. We need you to fly to Paris and read some Latin. Can you do it?”

“Is that all?”

Rand stared hard at the curl of smoke from his own cigarette. “We’ll be working with the Russians,” he said quietly. “It may work out and it may not. In any event, we have to be on our toes every minute.” He ran quickly over the information Taz had given him in Berlin.

“You believe what he told you?” Harry Truce asked. “About not having anybody in Russia who could read Latin?”

“Not entirely. But I’ll play along with him, just to see what he’s up to.” Rand stood up. “Let’s go, Harry. We leave for Paris tonight.”

Paris was a sea of glittering April lights as their plane came in for a landing. It was the sort of warm spring night that brought out the lovers along the Champs Elysées, the sort that made Rand forget the dampness of London and Berlin. They had a room at a medium-priced tourist hotel just across the Seine from the Palais de Justice, and it was still a little before ten when they reached it.

Rand phoned the telephone number that Taz had given him, and heard an unfamiliar male voice say, “Kane Mander is staying at number 17, Rue de Varenne. He is expecting you at noon tomorrow.”

“What about the money?” Rand asked. “He’s not likely to give up anything for free.”

“You will be contacted tonight,” the voice said, and hung up. Rand sighed and reached for a cigarette.

“What do you think?” Harry Truce asked.

“I don’t know,” Rand admitted. He began to pace the floor, trying to complete in his mind a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing. He was trusting a Russian, doing a job for him, when every instinct cried out against such trust. Surely Taz would have got the report first and then worried about reading it. Surely the translating of it was a minor problem at best. And Father Howard’s companion would have no reason for substituting a fake report. “Harry—”

“What?”

“Take a ride over to 17 Rue de Varenne. It’s not far from here. See if there’s a Kane Mander staying there.”

“Right.”

“But be careful. Don’t make contact with him directly. I’ll be waiting for you here, down in the bar.”

It was just after midnight when Harry Truce returned. Rand had passed the time lingering over two weak drinks served by an indifferent bartender in the dimly lit lounge, and he was just about to go upstairs to bed when Harry walked through the swinging doors. His left arm was around the waist of a smartly dressed young lady with shoulder-length blonde hair. He was smiling like a college boy on a big date.

The girl’s name was Naomi Smith, and she liked to laugh a lot. Rand waited till she went off to the Ladies’ Room before fixing Harry with an icy stare. “Where’d you pick her up?”

“I checked out that address. There’s a Kane Mander staying on the top floor. But he seemed to be out.”

“And the girl?”

Harry Truce smiled slightly. “I didn’t think you’d mind. She got there just ahead of me, and she was asking questions about Mander.”

Rand grunted. It might mean anything. “Did you ask her about it?”

“I was working up to it.”

Naomi Smith came back then, threading her way between tables and sitting down with a bit of a laugh. “Hi! Back again!”

Rand offered a cigarette. “You’re American, aren’t you?”

“Does it show?”

“Just a little. Do you work in Paris?”

“Here and in London. I’m the European representative of Cage Publications in New York. We have a biweekly news magazine and a chain of newspapers through the midwest. I’m about all they can afford in the way of a foreign correspondent. But Paris is still a great place to work—memories of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, all that.”

“It was a long time ago, Miss Smith. There was a war in between.”

“Call me Naomi—everyone does. There are so many Smiths, but not many Naomis outside of the Bible.” She paused to light another cigarette. “I know there was a war, and now there are all sorts of interesting people around. Did you know that Hemingway covered the liberation of Paris in 1944? I think his generation is still here in spirit.”

Rand sipped his drink. There was no point in fencing any longer. “Would one of those interesting people be Kane Mander?”

She looked blank, as if she’d never head the name. “I really don’t know.”

“You were looking for his apartment.”

The big eyes widened further. “Well, I know that, but I haven’t been able to meet him yet.” Another little laugh, as she brushed a vagrant strand of hair from her eyes. “But that’s business and I never talk business this late at night.”

A sleepy bellboy appeared with a message for Rand. There was a phone call for him in the lobby. He excused himself and went to answer it. It was no real surprise to hear the voice of Taz on the other end.

“You have been out of your room, Mr. Rand.”

“Doing a little sightseeing.”

“At night? In the bar with Mr. Truce and a young lady?”

Rand smiled slightly. “You don’t miss much.”

“We have the money for you. For tomorrow.”

“Where is it?”

“There is a white envelope near your left hand at this moment. In it is a quantity of Swiss banknotes, enough to meet Mander’s asking price. Close the deal at noon and return to your hotel room with the report. I will get in touch with you there.”

“All right,” Rand said. He hung up and pocketed the white envelope without opening it. He knew one of Taz’s men must be close at hand, watching.

One more quick drink and they were seeing Naomi Smith into a taxi. But Harry was in no mood for sleep when they returned to the room. “She’s quite a girl, isn’t she? Think she could be a Chinese agent?”

Rand shook his head. “Her eyes don’t slant.”

“No, really! Why else would she be looking for Mander?”

“She’s heard about the report and wants to buy it for her magazine.”

Rand was busy counting the Swiss banknotes. They came to almost £35,000—about $100,000. It was a great deal of money for Taz to entrust to him.

Saturday was sunny, and warmer than the previous day. When they reached the address on the Rue de Varenne, the place seemed quiet and respectable, with only a few children playing a sidewalk game in front. The time was exactly noon when they walked through the doorway of Kane Mander’s apartment.

He was a strange-looking man, with a completely bald head and tiny eyes barely visible beneath layers of fat. His English was poor, and he suggested at the outset that they converse in French. “Whom do you represent?” he asked.

Rand patted the thick envelope of banknotes. “A combine of interested buyers.”

“I will not sell to the Russians. The Communists were responsible for Father Howard’s death.”

“We’re sorry about Father Howard,” Rand told the bald man. “It must have been hard on you.”

“I watched them take him off the plane. I think I knew they were after the report, and he must have, too. It was like a silent movie, because our propellers were still running and I couldn’t even hear the sound of the shots. I just saw him topple, and then they carried him away.”

Rand gestured toward Harry Truce. “This man will inspect the report. He reads Latin.”

“You haven’t yet told me whom you represent.”

Rand handed over some routine credentials. “British Intelligence. To be exact, the Department of Concealed Communications.”

He was beginning to understand at least a part of Taz’s scheming. The man would not have dealt with a Russian. Still, he felt he was being loyal to Father Howard’s memory. The report would be delivered where it would do the most good.

“All right,” Kane Mander decided. “And the money?”

Rand handed it over. “You didn’t mention an amount.”

“I told them on the telephone—is it all here?”

“You can count it while my friend reads the report.”

Mander nodded his bald head and disappeared into the bathroom. He returned almost at once with a sheaf of handwritten pages. Rand guessed there must be 25 or 30 in all, and he could see only that the unfamiliar words had been written in a strong, priestly hand.

“There’s a lot to it,” Harry said with a frown.

“Just skim through it. Make sure of what we’re getting.”

Mander finished his moneycounting first. “The amount is correct,” he announced, slapping down the last of the banknotes.

“You’ll be leaving Paris now?”

“After I get some sleep. In a day or so.”

Harry Truce finished skimming the last of the sheets. “It’s hard to tell, but it looks all right to me. They’re certainly not Latin prayers.”

“Let’s go,” Rand decided. There was nothing more to be accomplished here. “It was a pleasure dealing with you, Mr. Mander.”

“My pleasure, certainly. And Father Howard would have been pleased.”

“You going to use the money for a fancy gravestone?” Rand asked.

Mander reddened slightly. “He was my friend. He would have wanted it this way.”

“Sure. Of course.”

In another moment they were back on the quiet street.

“That was easy,” Harry said.

“Easy,” Rand agreed.

Back at the hotel they waited for the Russian’s call. It came in less than an hour. “You have it, Mr. Rand?”

“I have it.”

“Authentic?”

“Authentic. Verified.”

“I assume you will copy it before delivering the original to me.”

Rand glanced over at the desk where Harry had set up a miniature camera and was already photographing the pages. “Naturally. When do I deliver the original?”

“I cannot come there myself in daylight. A Chinese agent arrived in Paris two days ago, and he may be watching your hotel.” Taz hesitated and then said, “Tonight, just after dark. Be at the Eiffel Tower when they turn on the lights. Then begin walking due south until I stop you.”

“All right,” Rand said, and hung up. He hoped the phone was safe.

“We all set?” Harry asked.

“I am. How about you?” Rand walked over to the table and glanced down at the sheet of paper positioned under the camera. The Latin script covered the page from top to bottom, with the number 23 at the top right corner in a slightly darker ink. “How many more pages?”

“There are twenty-seven pages altogether. I’m almost finished.”

“Good. We’ll send the film to London by courier. Give it to me when you finish.” He walked over to the window and stared down at the river. It was muddy and winding, like the Thames. Like all rivers.

“When do we go back?” Harry asked.

“Tonight, on the late flight. But I don’t want to take a chance carrying this film around. I’ll pass it to our man at the Embassy and then give the original to Taz. You get us some plane tickets and meet me at the airport.”

Harry Truce grunted. “There’s something I want to do first.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s just an idea I have. I’d like to check it out.”

“They don’t pay us to be heroes,” Rand reminded him. “Just to do a job. Pick up the tickets and meet me at the airport.”

After Harry left, Rand checked his suitcase and removed the flat automatic pistol which he always carried in an inner compartment. He didn’t particularly like the weight of it under his arm, but the meeting with Taz presented too many unanswered questions.

The Russian had wanted someone who could read Latin. He’d obviously wanted the deal handled by the British rather than the Russians. Did he want something else, too? Rand was inclined to trust him, but he took the gun anyway.

Back in the sunshine, walking across the nearly deserted Rue de la Cité, where the rear view of Notre Dame Cathedral was almost as spectacular as the front, he decided to deliver the film to the courier before he did anything else. It took him only ten minutes to complete that mission, and as he left the drop point near the Embassy, he heard someone call his name. “Mr. Rand!”

He turned and saw a breathless Naomi Smith running down the sidewalk toward him. “Miss Smith. How are you today?”

“Not very good,” she admitted. “What are you and Harry trying to pull with Kane Mander?”

“Do we have to be pulling anything?”

“My boss talked to Mander by trans-Atlantic phone three days ago. He agreed to see me and listen to my offer before doing anything with the report. I just reached him and he told me he’d sold it to you.”

Rand smiled slightly. “We weren’t completely honest with each other last evening, were we?”

“Mr. Rand, we’re willing to go as high as fifty thousand dollars for first publication rights to Father Howard’s report.”

“It’s not mine to sell, Miss Smith.”

“Could we talk to your superiors?”

“I’m sorry. It would do no good.”

She seemed almost ready to stamp her foot in frustration. “This could cost me my job!”

“There’s nothing I can do,” he said, and left her standing alone on the sidewalk.

He’d walked another few blocks when he saw the crowd in the street. It was the direction Naomi Smith had come from—back toward the apartment on the Rue de Varenne. Rand would have passed by without a second thought except that something drew him to the spot.

He pushed through the crowd, past the little ambulance with its flashing light, and saw the body on the pavement. It was Harry Truce.

“What happened?” he asked a bystander.

“Accident—hit and run.”

“Is he dead?”

The Frenchman nodded. “He’s dead. These Englishmen never look the right way when they’re crossing.”

“I saw the whole thing,” a woman said. She was fat and sweating. “He ran right at the car and it hit him.”

Rand’s mouth was very dry. “Was there a woman driving?”

The fat woman bumped against him. “What does that mean? You think only women run down pedestrians in the street? You Englishmen are all alike, all—”

He walked away, pushing back through the crowd, avoiding the uniformed policeman who was taking statements. There was nothing he could do for Harry Truce. Perhaps he had done too much already.

It was a dirty business at best, and the Paris assignment with Taz was no different from all the rest of it. The Russian had somehow double-crossed him, in a manner he still did not understand, and now Harry Truce was dead. But the original of Father Howard’s report was still in his breast pocket. They hadn’t got it from Harry, if that was what they’d been after.

He took a taxi to the Palais de Chaillot, across the river from the Eiffel Tower, and found a public restroom. He locked himself in the little cubicle and examined the original report once more. If there was any secret communication in it, the Latin words effectively screened it. He looked through the 27 pages one at a time, finding nothing. And yet there was something that bothered him, something not quite right.

In a few hours the report would be in Taz’s hands. Would he have killed Harry just to get it a little bit sooner? Or had Harry died because of some discovery he’d made about the whole affair and Taz’s part in it?

He wondered what Harry would have done with the report if the choice had been his. Give it to Taz as promised? More likely, he’d have let Naomi Smith use it for her magazine. Sometimes wars really were lost by a general’s hangover, or won by the smile of a pretty girl.

Rand barely glanced at the Eiffel Tower as he crossed the bridge and walked among the strollers and lovers and tourists with their cameras. Already it was dusk, and soon the lights would come on. Taz would be waiting—to kill him too?

Rand felt the gun heavy beneath his arm. No one could live on trust forever, not Rand or the world. He would have to shoot first, if Taz made the slightest suspicious move.

Presently he saw the man, sitting on one of the benches in a shabby workingman’s costume. The Russian pretended not to notice him as Rand walked on past, waiting for the spotlights to strike out at the Tower when darkness fell. Finally the lights came on. Rand turned to retrace his steps, and saw the Russian rise to greet him.

He was twenty feet away when Taz’s hand emerged from his pocket, holding a small pistol that was almost invisible in the gloom. Rand dropped to the pavement, clawing at his own weapon. But then in an instant he saw the third figure behind him. It was Kane Mander, and he too had a gun.

Taz shouted something in Russian as Mander fired two wild shots. Then Rand rolled over, prayed he was making the right choice, and shot Kane Mander through the forehead.

They held their final meeting in a private room at Orly Airport, just before midnight that evening. It was very different from the hour they’d spent in Berlin together. Taz and his party were departing for East Berlin, while Rand was on his way back to London. The report of Father Howard had already changed hands.

“Perhaps you saved my life,” Taz said.

“He was blinded by the lights,” Rand pointed out. “It gave me a split second to decide.”

“But how did you know it was Kane Mander who killed your friend, and not me?”

Rand leaned back in his chair, tired of it all, wondering what awaited him back in London. There’d be formalities with the Paris police, reports to be completed. “It wasn’t Kane Mander, that’s the point. It was the Red Chinese agent who arrived a few days ago. The real Mander is probably at the bottom of the Seine.”

“But how did you know?”

“The same way Harry Truce knew, except that I was a bit slower catching on. When we met the supposed Kane Mander, he described the killing of Father Howard and mentioned the noise of the plane’s propellers. But the plane was a jet, and a jet has no propellers—which he certainly would have known if he’d made the trip with Father Howard. If he didn’t make the trip, then he wasn’t the real Kane Mander—simple as that.

“The girl Naomi Smith gave me a bit of verification when she said her publisher had phoned Mander, that he’d agreed to see her and listen to her offer before closing a deal with anyone else. Again this appeared to be the action of an impersonator, a false Kane Mander.”

“But why sell you the report if he was a Chinese agent?” Taz argued.

“Two reasons—for the money, mainly, but also to have a try at killing us both. He must have had someone on my tail all day, waiting for me to make contact with you. If we could both be killed, and it could look as if we had shot each other—”

“He knew we were working together?”

“He knew, or guessed. Don’t they always suspect you Russians of such things with the West?”

“But the report was truly valuable—” Taz was still puzzled.

“Not in the form he supplied it to me today. We received Father Howard’s fifteen-page introduction and twelve-page conclusion. The meat of the report, running to thirty-five more pages, was removed by the false Mander before he delivered it. Harry Truce only skimmed through it, and failed to realize that such a large chunk was missing. But there was a clue to it—the clue that must have sent Harry to his death.”

“What clue?”

“The page numbers were in a darker ink, indicating they were written at a different time from the text, and they were in Arabic numerals—I remember seeing the number 23 while Harry was photographing the pages. Would Father Howard have numbered a Latin manuscript in Arabic numerals, in other than Roman numerals? Possible, but unlikely. Either the original manuscript was unnumbered, or else the Chinese agent merely cut off the tops of the pages and renumbered them. If the manuscript pages were renumbered, the implication was that something had been removed. Harry must have thought of that, along with Mander’s mistake about the plane’s propellers, and gone back to confront him—or to search for the missing pages.”

“And was killed.”

Rand nodded. “And was killed. He saw the man who called himself Mander leaving in a car and tried to stop him. He was run down for his trouble. I knew the accident took place near the apartment, but I didn’t connect Mander with it till I saw him at the Tower tonight.”

“Surely our people in Moscow and London would have discovered the missing pages of manuscript.”

“Yes, and accused each other of stealing them. Neither of us would have been alive to say differently.”

Taz’s voice was barely a whisper. Overhead they could hear the roar of an incoming jet. “It is my turn to play detective. How did you know there were thirty-five missing pages?”

“I went back to Mander’s apartment tonight and found them hidden under the rug.”

“I must have them,” said Taz.

Rand took a thick envelope from his pocket. “They’re yours. I’ve already photographed them.”

The Russian smiled slightly. “Thank you.” Then, “Did you really think I would have killed you tonight?”

“For a moment I wasn’t sure,” Rand admitted. “You surely wanted more than just a spy who could read Latin. You must have people in Moscow—”

“I wanted more.”

“Me?”

Taz eyed him for a moment. “But not dead. Alive—as a defector. I was to offer you a great deal of money.”

“You didn’t mention it earlier.”

“No. I realized from the moment I saw you that you were a different sort of man.”

“Aren’t we both?” Rand got to his feet. “I have a plane to catch.”

Taz nodded. “What about the girl?”

“I’ll give her a story—something with lots of cloaks and daggers.”

“But not the truth?”

“There are so many truths.” Rand said. “We can share one of them with her—the one about a brave and foolish young man named Harry Truce.”

Rand walked with Taz to the door, shook hands quickly, and hurried toward his plane. He did not look back.

The Spy Who Traveled with a Coffin

THE MAN IN THE black raincoat was an assassin. He was, actually, quite skilled at his job, and he was employed only by the most important governments. He liked the work, especially the frequent travel that went with it. This day he was even enjoying Tokyo in the rain.

Harumi-Dori is a street that runs up from Tokyo Harbor to the grounds of the Imperial Palace. Crossed at two points by the new expressway, it perhaps symbolizes modern Japan as well as any other street in the capital. At least that was what the man in the black raincoat was thinking as he walked along it, past the Nishi Honganji Temple and the famous Kabuki-Za Theatre. The old Japan and the new—Kabuki and expressways.

He paused at the corner, decided that the rain had almost stopped, and turned down the collar of his raincoat. Then he crossed the busy street and entered the offices of the Japan News Agency. The newsroom was on the third floor, and he found it without difficulty. It was a crowded, bustling place of clattering teletype machines and chattering Japanese voices. Very much like a newsroom anywhere else.

But then he paused. The desks were set in neat rows, and there was no identification on any of them. Thirty-six men occupied the room, seated at thirty-six desks, and he had no way of identifying the man he sought. He pondered a moment, deciding on the best tactic. His knowledge of Japanese was limited, and he could not simply ask for the man he sought without attracting attention to himself and warning his prey.

There was a pay telephone in the hallway outside the newsroom. He dropped in the necessary coins and dialed the number of the news agency itself. When the operator answered, he spoke the name of the man he sought.

“Shoju Etan.”

She made the connection and he heard a phone in the newsroom begin to ring. One among many, but the only one to start ringing at exactly that instant. He let the receiver hang free and stepped back into the newsroom. The man was at the head of the center row of desks, as befitted his position. A dull, middle-aged Japanese speaking now into the silent phone, questioning, waiting.

The man in the black raincoat stepped quickly to the desk and fired one shot from the Llama .32 in his hand. He needed only one shot. The man at the desk slumped over dead, and the phone receiver clattered to the floor.

Then there were screaming and shouting, the turmoil so familiar to his way of life, and death. The man in the raincoat twisted his lip in a sort of smile as he backed through the door and headed for the fire stairs. A copy boy was blocking his path, and the man swung the Llama automatic in a wide arc, catching the youth on the temple. Then he was through the door, running quickly down the stairs to the safety of the street…

When Rand stepped off the big jet airliner at Tokyo Airport two days later, the sun was shining brightly. The time change during the flight from London had tired him, and he should have been sleeping, but the sights of the strange and exotic city freshened his mind.

“Your first visit to Tokyo, Mr. Rand?” a voice asked. It belonged to a dark-haired American with fashionable sideburns and badly capped front teeth.

“Yes, it is,” Rand replied. “But not my first to the Orient. I visited Hong Kong some years back.” He moved into line at the Customs counter. “You must be Lanning.”

“That’s right,” the American said. “My car is outside.”

Ten minutes later, seated in the back of an American limousine far too large to pass unnoticed on Tokyo’s crowded streets, Samuel Lanning produced his identification. Rand inspected the plastic-sealed I.D. card from the Central Intelligence Agency. He’d seen them before, and if they weren’t quite as colorfully printed as the Americans’ Secret Service identification, they were still impressive.

“You fellows should get your Treasury to print these,” Rand commented. “The Secret Service ones look like miniature money.”

Sam Lanning blinked and slipped the wallet back in his pocket. “You’ve been to America? The Secret Service rarely gets to London, I know.”

“Oh, yes, New York, Washington, other places. I spent some months there just last year.”

Lanning nodded. He spoke a few words in Japanese to the driver and then settled back. “Your department is Concealed Communications, isn’t it?” he asked. “Codes and things?”

Rand smiled. “Codes and things. I must say I’m impressed with your car. I didn’t realize the CIA paid so well.”

The American snorted. “The car belongs to the Embassy, and they don’t pay that well. I started at $8000 a year, about what I could have made as a high-school teacher, and a good deal less than I might have earned as an actor.”

Rand nodded. The man was interesting, even by the usual standards of the trade. “You were an actor?”

“I did a little Shakespeare after college.”

“Hamlet?”

“No, but I did Iago once in a semiprofessional production of Othello. That’s the longest role Shakespeare ever wrote.”

The sedan took an expressway that looped around the Imperial Palace and then left it to wind through the narrow streets of the city. Lanning explained that they were in the Bunkyo-Ku section in the northern part of the city. The car passed the Kodokan Judo Hall and slowed to a stop before a middle-class apartment house. The streets here were filled with young people, and Rand asked about them.

“Tokyo University is only a few blocks away,” Lanning said. “Things are normal there now. It’s almost time for the summer vacation.”

“Who will we be seeing here?” Rand gestured toward the apartment house. “Mrs. Belgrave?”

“Yes. And the other.”

Rand frowned at the CIA man. “A replacement for Shoju? I assume someone replaced him after the killing on Monday.”

Lanning smiled, as if proud of his little secret. “No one could replace Shoju in this operation, but happily we don’t have to. Shoju Etan is alive.”

“Alive?” Rand could not conceal his surprise. “But the papers said—”

“Someone else was sitting at his desk. We decided to play along and throw the assassin off the track temporarily.” He opened the door. “Shall we go up now?”

Shoju Etan was a short balding Japanese of indeterminate age, with twinkling eyes that seemed always friendly. Rand had met him in London some years earlier, when he was once honored by a journalism group.

“Shoju! I’m so glad to see you alive!” Rand hurried to shake his hand.

“Ah, the Double-C man!” The slanted eyes took on their familiar twinkle. “I am indeed alive. I could hardly depart this earth without having written that interview we talked of in London.”

“The reports in the paper—”

“Ah! We never believe what we read, do we, Mr. Rand? I was writing a series on the Tokyo zoo, and went out for further information. Another man was using my desk, and unfortunately he was mistaken for me.”

Rand became aware of the woman who sat in one corner of the pleasant room, her face hidden in shadow. “You must be Mrs. Belgrave.”

She stood up and offered her hand. Seeing her face, he was a bit surprised by its obvious youthful beauty. Somehow he’d expected Gordon Belgrave’s wife to be close to his age—a woman in her fifties. But Mrs. Belgrave could have been no more than 35, and her flashing red hair contrasted strikingly with the pale skin of her face.

“How do you do, Mr. Rand,” she said, speaking with a slight British accent, as of one who has lived most of her life far from her homeland. “I do hope you can help free my husband.”

“I’ll do what I can, of course,” Rand assured her. Then, to Lanning, “Suppose you run over the situation for me. I must admit this attempt to kill Shoju here was more than I’d bargained for.”

Lanning cleared his throat, a little like a lecturer. “Sure. Glad to, Rand. As you know, Gordon Belgrave is the American representative of a book publishers’ council who was sent to Moscow to negotiate an agreement with the Russians on book royalties. The Reds had been pirating American books for years without paying anything, and lately there’s been some reverse pirating by U.S. publishers. Mrs. Belgrave accompanied her husband, and perhaps she should take up the story at this point.”

They turned toward the redhaired woman, and in that moment her pale drawn face revealed more of her ordeal than any words she might utter. Finally she pulled herself together and began. “We’d been there about two weeks, and Gordon had met with various minor government officials, when one night without any warning we were arrested as we were leaving the hotel for dinner. They said my husband was an American spy, and the—they took us away to jail. I was questioned several times and so was my husband. Finally this man Taz said that I was being released because I was British. He said Gordon had confessed to being an American spy, and would have to stand trial.”

Rand interrupted. “Taz is my opposite number in Moscow. His field is codes and ciphers. He wouldn’t be involved in a routine espionage case.”

“We know about Taz,” Lanning said. “That’s why you’re here, Rand. I understand you’ve met the man.”

“We’ve met twice, in East Berlin and in Paris, and I think we respect each other’s work. It goes no further than that.”

“But you’re the man to talk to him, to reason with him. He has some coded messages that Gordon Belgrave is supposed to have sent.”

“Did Belgrave really confess?”

Lanning motioned to the Japanese reporter. “Shoju can best answer that. He was there.”

“I was,” Shoju Etan admitted. “I was in Moscow on this series of articles I mentioned, and when I heard of the arrest I hurried to the Kremlin. After some time I managed to see Taz, and he took me with him while he interviewed the prisoner. He said he wanted to avoid the sort of publicity that spy arrests usually received in the Western press. He wanted to show me that Belgrave had not been tortured or brainwashed or otherwise coerced into making a confession.”

“And Belgrave did actually confess?”

“He did,” the Japanese reporter confirmed. “He said he had sent telegraphic messages to Allied agents in London using something called a SYKO cipher. Taz had the evidence of the messages themselves.”

“What information was he supposed to have sent?”

Shoju stirred uneasily. “I did not include this in my published articles on the matter, but the Russians are working on a new form of SUM missile—surface to underwater missile—for use against America’s Polaris submarines. I believe Taz suspects that Mrs. Belgrave’s husband was spying on this activity.”

“I see,” Rand commented. “But how can I help?”

Mrs. Belgrave stood up. “My husband is innocent, Mr. Rand. Completely innocent. He’s—not well. He had a nervous breakdown about a year ago, and has been under treatment since then. I believe the Russians have done something to his mind.”

“I’m sure the book publishers’ council wouldn’t have sent him to Moscow if he were seriously ill.”

“Oh, it wasn’t anything he couldn’t control,” she insisted. “In fact, he’d been much better since the shock treatments at the hospital. But I can’t help feeling that his confession was the result somehow of his mental condition.”

Rand turned to Lanning. “What about it, Lanning? Was he working for you?” He knew it was a foolish question, which could only bring a negative reply.

“Absolutely not,” the CIA man insisted. “Belgrave was an Army Air Corps Intelligence officer during the Second World War, but he’d been completely separated from any sort of government service ever since. He has absolutely no connection with the CIA, NSA, or any other agency.”

“I’m inclined to believe you,” Rand said with a smile. Then, to Shoju, “You’re returning to Moscow?”

The Japanese nodded. “I said in my last article that I would return this week with Mrs. Belgrave to try and free her husband.”

“You think that’s why they tried to kill you?”

Shoju shrugged. “I do not know.”

“All right,” Rand decided. “I’ll go with you to Moscow. Since the British government sent me all this distance to help, I hardly think they’d want me to quit now. When is the next plane?”

“There is only one flight each week from Tokyo to Moscow,” Shoju informed them. “Every Thursday on Japan Air Lines.”

“Tomorrow.” Rand considered for a moment. “All right, tomorrow it is.”

On the way back to his hotel, alone with Lanning in the back of the limousine, Rand asked the question again. “Is he one of your men, Lanning?”

“No. That’s the truth, Rand.”

“All right. Next question. Who tried to kill Shoju at his office?”

“We believe it was a Turkish assassin named Sivas. He arrived in Tokyo three days ago and promptly dropped out of sight.”

“Who’s he working for?”

Lanning spread his hands. “That we don’t know. He generally takes assignments from governments rather than from individuals. In recent years he’s been quite active in the Middle East and the Balkans.”

“Albania?”

“Perhaps.”

“Would he work for Moscow?”

“Certainly, if they paid him.”

“What does he look like?”

“Medium, dark. His appearance has a way of changing.”

“I see,” Rand said. He saw, but he didn’t like it.

They gathered at the airport the following day—Rand, Lanning, Mrs. Belgrave, and Shoju Etan. An oddly mixed group, by any standard. Rand looked over his fellow passengers and wondered for the first time what he was doing there. Would he really have any influence with Taz on the Russian’s home ground?

The flight was only about half full, with the rest of the passenger list consisting of an assortment of Oriental businessmen and traveling diplomats. There were only two women on board—Mrs. Belgrave and the lady with the coffin.

Rand noticed her at once, but he could hardly credit that to acute powers of observation. She was a striking brunette of perhaps 35—about Mrs. Belgrave’s age—and her vaguely Oriental features seemed a perfect blending of the East and West that the flight itself symbolized. Her dress was Oriental, but when she spoke to her traveling companion it was in an English that could only have been learned in India or Hong Kong or some other outpost of the faded Empire.

Her companion was a grumbling man with a sinister face that seemed perpetually twisted into a frown. Lanning took one look at him and whispered to Rand, “Now that fellow could pass for a Turkish assassin any day of the week!”

But it was the coffin more than anything else which attracted attention to the odd pair. A series of adjoining seats had been removed from the rear of the plane’s passenger compartment, and six stocky baggage handlers helped carry a full-sized coffin on board. There was a noticeable stir among the passengers, and one man was even about to leave the plane. The pert young stewardess moved up and down the aisle, assuring everyone that the coffin did not really contain a body.

Rand glanced out the window at the morning mists that drifted across the field. Then, as he watched, the big jet engines came to life and the plane began to move. He glanced at his watch. It was 8:20 a.m., Japan time. They were right on schedule.

When they had reached their cruising altitude, Rand unbuckled his seatbelt and moved across the aisle to speak to the handsome brunette with the coffin.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but I must admit that my curiosity has the better of me. If there’s no body inside, what is in it?”

She smiled up at him. “Sit down. Join us. It’s been so long since I’ve heard a real British accent.”

“Thank you.”

She introduced the sinister, grumbly man by the window. “This is Dr. Hardan, my associate. I am Yota Twain.”

“My name is Rand. This is my first trip in the Far East, and I’m not accustomed to coffins sharing the passenger quarters on an airline.”

She laughed, a musical blending of two cultures. “It is rare, and we had to obtain special permission.”

“You still haven’t told me what’s inside that couldn’t be trusted to the baggage compartment.”

“And I’m afraid I can’t.” She made a pretty face. “It’s secret!”

“Classified material,” the frowning Dr. Hardan said. “Can’t talk.”

“I think it’s a body after all,” Rand said, smiling.

“Perhaps it is,” she agreed. “Perhaps I’m a witch, Mr. Rand, and it is the body of something very old, very dangerous. A monster of sorts.” She was smiling as she spoke, but somehow her words were not humorous. Rand felt a chill down his spine.

“You’re British?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Half, on my father’s side. The other side—well, a mixture of things. The dark ways of the Orient. I’ve never been to England. Is it damp and dreary?”

“Not really. Though there’s usually a time every winter when all your friends have colds. I’m used to it, I suppose. I like it.”

“What are you doing on a flight to Moscow?”

“Asking questions of ladies with coffins.”

“A journalist?”

“Of sorts.” He motioned toward the back of Shoju’s head. “My friend over there is a real one. I’ll bet he could find out what’s in your coffin.”

She smiled again. “You can see for yourself at Customs. We’ll have to open it then.”

“The great unveiling.”

“Yes.” She glanced at her watch, an expensive timepiece with a jeweled face. “This is a very long flight.”

“Exactly four thousand six hundred and sixty-three airline miles.” Rand liked to impress smiling ladies with his knowledge. “Even nonstop like this it takes over ten hours. It’ll be one o’clock this afternoon when we land in Moscow, counting the six hours we gain.”

“A walking timetable!”

“A sitting one right now, but I do have to get back to my own seat. I’ll talk to you later. Nice to have met you, and Dr. Hardan.” The frowning man nodded slightly.

Rand resumed his seat next to Mrs. Belgrave. Lanning and Shoju were in the seats behind them. “Did you have an interesting chat, Mr. Rand?” asked Mrs. Belgrave.

“Didn’t learn a thing,” he reported. “She says there’s a monster in the coffin, and that she’s a witch.”

“She said that?”

“More or less. Why?”

Mrs. Belgrave pursed her lips. “I was watching that coffin when we took off. I could have sworn it moved.”

“Vibrations.”

“No. More than that. And six men to carry it on! It must weigh three hundred pounds!”

“Maybe it’s a body after all.”

“A live body, Mr. Rand. Do you suppose they’re Russian agents, kidnaping someone and taking him back to Moscow against his will?”

“I doubt that.”

“I would have doubted that Gordon could be arrested as a spy.”

“That’s a bit different.”

“Do we really know these Russians, Mr. Rand? Do we know what they want, what they’re up to?”

“Perhaps they’re only afraid,” he said. “Like us.”

It was a long trip, without even the time-killing relaxation of the in-flight movies provided on trans-Atlantic flights. By the time nine hours had passed, Rand and the others had pulled down the window shades against the noonday sun and were dozing fitfully. Rand was aware of Mrs. Belgrave leaving her seat at one point, making her way toward the rest rooms at the rear of the aircraft.

It was a sound like a cough that awakened him finally, and even then he did not know what had caused it. He glanced around, saw Mrs. Belgrave making her way back down the aisle, saw Shoju and Lanning both dozing in the seats behind him. He got up to stretch his legs and speak to Yota Twain again, but she was not in her seat. Dr. Hardan was alone, his face buried in a Russian-language newspaper.

He found Yota in the rear of the plane, bent over the coffin like some daytime vampire, and once more he felt the chill on his spine. “Checking body temperature?” he asked.

“It would be quite low,” she replied, smiling. Then, standing up, she added, “Our journey is almost over.”

“None too soon.”

“Have you looked out the window? At the snow? It’s quite a sight with the sun on it.”

“Even in the summer Siberia holds little interest for me.”

“This is the Urals. We’re passing over them now.”

“I’ll look,” he promised.

“Rand!” He turned and saw that Lanning was motioning to him. Something was wrong—Lanning had lost his coolness.

“What is it?” Rand asked, hurrying up the aisle.

Lanning turned open the jacket of Shoju’s suit, showing the widening circle of blood. “Rand—he’s been wounded somehow! I think—”

Rand bent to feel Shoju’s pulse, then lifted one eyelid. “He’s dead,” he said simply. “He’s been murdered.”

Lanning stared hard at the body in the seat next to him, as if unable to comprehend Rand’s words. “But—I was right here all the time! How could he have been murdered?”

Rand avoided the most obvious answer and examined the wound more closely. “It looks like a bullet,” he said. “Did you hear a shot?”

“Nothing! I was dozing, but a shot would certainly have awakened me.”

“Maybe not,” Rand said, remembering now the quiet cough which had awakened him. A silenced pistol, perhaps further muffled by a pillow. With the passengers dozing and the stewardesses busy, no one had noticed. “Have a stewardess report it to the pilot. He should radio ahead and have police waiting at Moscow airport. The gun must still be on the plane.”

“What is it?” Mrs. Belgrave wanted to know. She had returned to her seat without realizing anything was amiss.

“There’s been some trouble. Shoju is dead.”

“No!” Her hand flew to her mouth. “What will happen to Gordon now?”

“I don’t think it will make his situation worse,” Rand told her.

“But why kill Shoju just because he heard Gordon’s confession?”

“I don’t know. But somebody was certainly intent on getting Shoju out of the way. When the killer failed at the office, he followed Shoju aboard the plane.”

Lanning glanced up and down the rows of seats at their fellow passengers. “The Turkish assassin—Sivas?”

“Maybe,” Rand agreed. “Mrs. Belgrave, did you notice anyone else in the aisle when you went to the rest room?”

“Only that woman, back there with her coffin.”

Some of the other passengers were beginning to group around them now, and a stewardess had arrived. Dr. Hardan came across the aisle to look, and Rand asked him, “Are you a medical doctor?”

“I—no. What has happened?”

“A man’s been killed.” He saw Yota hurrying up to join them, and he moved down the aisle past her. While they were busy looking at the body he’d have a few minutes alone with the mysterious coffin.

Rand dropped to his knees beside the polished wooden box and pressed his ear against it. There might have been a sound from inside, but he couldn’t be sure. He took a deep breath and began to unscrew the bolts that held the lid in place.

“No! Keep away from there!” Yota Twain flew down the aisle at him, her little fists clenched. “Don’t open that!”

“I’m sorry,” Rand said, trying to fight her off. “I have to open it. A man’s been murdered. The weapon may have been hidden in here.”

“There’s no weapon! Don’t open it!”

“Lanning! Keep her off me, will you?”

The CIA man had appeared behind Yota, and now he grabbed her arms, pinning them to her side. “Calm down, Miss.”

“You don’t understand! If you lift that lid—”

Rand twirled the last bolt free and began to raise the lid, slowly, mindful of a bomb or booby trap.

But the thing that faced him as he lifted the lid was much older than a bomb, and perhaps more dangerous. Their eyes met for just an instant, and then the ancient scaly jaws began to open slowly.

The thing in the coffin was a crocodile.

“I wish you’d listened to me,” Yota told him when the lid had been screwed down again. “It upsets him to have it opened like that.”

“It upset me a bit too,” Rand agreed. “Suppose you explain.”

“It’s not at all that unusual, Mr. Rand. Crocodiles are sometimes shipped between zoos in coffins, simply because it’s such a perfect container for them. This particular specimen is a Philippine crocodile, almost fully grown. We’re transferring him from the Tokyo zoo to the Moscow zoo, for mating with a female they have there.”

“You couldn’t tell us this before, Miss Twain?”

She smiled. “My real name is Dr. Yota Nobea, professor of zoology at Tokyo University. I have close ties with the zoo. And no, we couldn’t tell you this, Mr. Rand. Passengers would have been just as disturbed flying with a live crocodile as with a dead body, I’m afraid.”

Rand glanced back at Shoju’s seat. “Now they have both, I’m afraid. I suppose Dr. Hardan is a zoologist too.”

“That’s correct. He’s worked closely with me on the crocodile-mating project.”

“Why would anyone want to mate crocodiles?”

She shrugged. “It is an occupation much preferred to the killing of people, Mr. Rand.”

Lanning came up from the front of the plane, carrying a Llama automatic wrapped in a handkerchief. “We found the murder weapon, Rand. It was stuffed into an empty seat. Anyone could have put it there during the excitement just now. Here’s the silencer, too.”

“Could this be the gun that killed the man in Shoju’s office?”

“Same caliber. Yes, it could be.”

“Then Sivas is on this plane?”

“Sivas or someone else.” Lanning tried to grin. “I don’t go much for mysterious Turkish assassins myself. Sometimes life is a lot simpler.”

Rand stepped away so that Yota could not hear his answer. “Someone doesn’t want Belgrave freed. Could it be his wife?”

“I’ll buy anything at this point, Rand, if you can come up with a motive and evidence.”

The plane was beginning its descent. A voice on the intercom instructed the passengers to fasten their seat-belts. In a few moments they would be on the ground at Moscow airport.

Rand had been waiting for the better part of two hours in the high-ceilinged Kremlin office before Taz made his appearance. He was as Rand remembered him from Paris—middle-aged, with a thin face, pointed jaw, and deep blue eyes. His graying hair swept back from his forehead, and his thin fingers played nervously with the metal buttons of his jacket.

“Ah, my friend Rand!” He extended his hand in greeting, speaking the same accented English that Rand remembered from their previous meetings. “I am so sorry to keep you waiting like this, but your flight from Tokyo has complicated our lives. The murder of a news reporter is not to be taken lightly.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Rand wished he had a cigarette.

“But the killing is out of my hands. You come to discuss the arrest of the spy Belgrave, no?”

“No. Belgrave’s no spy and you know it, Taz.”

“I do not know it, my friend. He has confessed, and we have the evidence.”

“I’d like to see that evidence.”

Taz smiled slightly and untied a folder he’d been carrying. “I like to anticipate you. I especially like it when we are deciphering your messages.”

Rand frowned. This was, in some ways, a new Taz—a man supremely confident. “We’re pretty good at anticipating too,” he countered lamely. “Now, let’s see this evidence.”

Taz spread the telegraph forms on the desk between them. There were six in all, made up of familiar five-character cipher groups. Rand scanned one at random: 3H9J4 WBRD1 SQ25F MILT7 6G8RP. “You’ve deciphered it?” he asked Taz.

“In essence. After he confessed, Belgrave read the rest for us. A SYKO cipher, of course. I suspected as much when I saw the mixture of numerals and letters.”

“Were these actually sent?”

“Of course not!” Taz chuckled at the very thought of it. “Russian telegraph offices could hardly be expected to transmit enciphered messages.”

“Exactly!” Rand pointed out. “So what did Belgrave hope to gain by trying to send them? If he’d discovered any secrets it would have been much safer to carry them back to America inside his head.”

“The fact remains that he confessed. And without torture.”

“The only witness to that is dead now.”

“The Japanese?” Taz dismissed him with a wave of the hand. “I was a witness to it. Do you not accept my word?”

Rand looked into the deep blue eyes. “I do,” he said at last.

“Then what else is there to discuss? The man was caught trying to send enciphered messages, and he confessed to being an American spy.”

“Spying on what? On your new SUM missile?”

“The particular nature of his espionage is not important.”

“I think it’s damned important,” Rand barked, leaning forward until his face was only inches from Taz’s. “There’s nothing in these messages about the SUM and you know it!”

“Do I?”

“Because if there was you wouldn’t be so free in showing them to me. I could have them memorized already, for all you know. It’s not too difficult a feat.”

“All right.” Taz leaned back, breaking the contact of their eyes. “The messages did not mention SUM. They seemed to be about aircraft reconnaissance. They did not, admittedly, make a great deal of sense.”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

Taz frowned at him now. “Why not?”

“Because the SYKO cipher was a widely used Allied air-ground system during World War II. It hasn’t been used since then. Gordon Belgrave was an Air Corps Intelligence officer during the war. He was confessing to acts of espionage committed twenty-five years ago.”

Taz turned from the desk and walked over to the high broad window that reached almost to the ceiling. He stood for a moment gazing out at the lights of the Moscow evening; then at last he turned to face Rand.

“You can prove what you say?”

“Belgrave had a nervous breakdown last year. He received shock treatments. Your medical men will tell you that such shock treatments sometimes cause age regression. Belgrave came here to meet with Russian publishers, but suddenly imagined himself in the world of twenty-five years ago. He tried to send messages in the old SYKO cipher, and when you arrested him he confessed to espionage.”

“It’s possible,” Taz admitted somewhat reluctantly. “It would explain the oddness of the message.”

“It’s more than possible—it happened. I want the man released at once, Taz.”

“That is beyond my authority.”

“Like hell it is! What do you hope to gain by holding him?”

Taz motioned him to the window. “Forget about the American for a moment and look down on all this. We are in one of Moscow’s tallest buildings—not tall by American standards, but it compares favorably with London, no?”

“Get to the point, Taz. The American is innocent. What do you want in exchange for him?”

The blue eyes blinked. “What do I want? Why, I want you, my friend. And it appears that I have you.”

“What new game is this?” Rand felt his blood run cold. Had he been outwitted somehow?

“I could press that button on the desk and have you arrested for murder, Mr. Rand.”

“Murder!”

“The murder of one Shoju Etan on a Japanese airliner over Russian territory.”

“You’re crazy, my friend.”

“I could produce three witnesses who would swear they saw you shoot him.”

“You had Shoju killed just to frame me for his murder?”

“Hardly. But it is convenient, is it not? I could keep you here, remove you forever from the Department of Concealed Communications.”

“If that’s what you want you could have me killed back in London any day of the week. I’m really quite vulnerable, as I told you once before.”

Taz shook his head. “I do not want you dead, my friend. I want only to make you an offer.”

“In return for my freedom?”

“In return for the freedom of Gordon Belgrave.”

“He means nothing to me.”

Taz shrugged. “Very well, then. Who else must I seize? The American CIA man—Lanning?”

“Leave him out of it.” Rand realized that his palms were sweating. He’d come here as the cat and now suddenly he felt like the mouse. “What is your offer?”

Taz smiled, motioning toward the walls with their proletarian adornment. “I can assure you there are no listening devices in this room.”

“I accept your assurance.”

“Very well. Let us get to business. My offer is simply this—that we, you and I, join forces for our own betterment. That we, shall I say, exchange certain key pieces of information regarding our codes and ciphers.”

Rand leaned forward, not certain that he’d heard correctly. “You can’t be serious!”

“I’m deadly serious, my friend. Neither of us grows younger. The espionage business is a dying one, replaced by satellites in the sky and old men around a conference table. Would it not be to our advantage to work together, to try and gather a—what is it called?—yes, a nest egg for the days of our enforced retirement. What I am suggesting, after all, is no more than Major Batjuschin suggested to Captain Redl in 1902.”

This brought a smile from Rand. “You mean Captain Redl, the archtraitor?”

“Yes or no, my friend?”

“I suppose, Taz, that what you’re suggesting is the only sensible course for practical men to follow. And I suppose I’m both foolish and old-fashioned in turning you down.”

“What is it—patriotism?”

“Nothing so nebulous as that. I suppose, quite simply, it’s just that I don’t quite trust you, my friend.”

The Russian’s face froze. “Very well. Then Gordon Belgrave remains with us.”

Rand held up a hand. “Not so fast. Now it’s my turn to propose a deal. Do I have your word that the Russians are not responsible for Shoju Etan’s murder?”

“You have it.”

“What about a man named Sivas?”

“A hired killer, employed by the Albanians, and sometimes by their friends the Chinese.”

“I suspected as much.”

“Is Sivas here, in Moscow?” asked Taz curiously.

“If you’ll release Belgrave, I’ll deliver Sivas—and more besides.”

“More?”

“Now it’s your turn to trust me.”

Taz nodded slowly. “Show me Sivas. Where is he?”

“Let’s look for him together. At the Moscow zoo.”

Dr. Yota Nobea glanced up as they entered, neglecting for a moment the languid crocodile in its shallow pool of water. “The zoo is closed till morning,” she said automatically. “It’s almost eleven o’clock.”

“You’ve forgotten me already?” Rand asked. “After only ten hours?”

“Mr. Rand! What brings you to the zoo at night? And who is that with you?”

“My name is Taz,” the Russian said softly.

“You really must excuse me. I’m getting my crocodile settled in his new quarters.”

“We don’t want the crocodile,” Rand said. “We want the coffin he came in.”

“The coffin! It’s out on the truck. But why do you want it?”

“Because, Dr. Nobea, six big men had to struggle to get that coffin on board. A full-grown Philippine crocodile weighs less than an average person, and you said this one wasn’t yet fullgrown. I want what’s hidden in the bottom of that coffin.”

“There’s nothing,” she said, but her eyes darted with fright.

“No Customs man would search further after you showed him the crocodile, would he? And no Customs man would question the total weight of the coffin, at least not when it arrived in the care of Professor Nobea of Tokyo University. Which brings us to the question: what happened to the real Professor Nobea?”

Yota’s mouth twisted. “I am Nobea.”

Rand shook his head. “Shoju Etan was doing a series of articles on the Tokyo zoo, which included research in Moscow. He must have known about the crocodile-mating project. He must have met the real Nobea. That was why Shoju Etan had to die, wasn’t it? Not because of Gordon Belgrave’s confession, but because of Shoju’s zoo articles. Not because the newspaperman might recognize you on the plane, but because he wouldn’t recognize you! When that coffin was opened at Customs and you identified yourself as Dr. Nobea, Shoju would have been there to call you a liar.”

“The first attempt on Shoju was made at his office,” Taz objected. “How would they know that soon whether he would be on the same flight?”

“Shoju wrote in his Belgrave story that he’d be returning to Moscow this week, and there’s only one flight from Tokyo to Moscow each week. Yota knew he’d be on that plane, and so he had to die. When they failed to kill him earlier, they had to do it before the plane landed. I had a tip when Yota admitted using a false name early in the flight. There was no reason for it—except to keep her assumed identity a secret from Shoju till he was dead.”

There was a sound behind them, and Rand saw Dr. Hardan in the doorway. He was wearing a black raincoat and he held a Llama automatic in his hand. A spare in his baggage, of course. All experienced assassins carry two.

Yota screamed something in Chinese and leaped to the side of the crocodile pond. Taz turned, his reactions just a bit too slow, and saw the assassin’s gun trained on him. Rand had only a second to consider the alternatives. Then he fired through the pocket of his jacket and caught Hardan in the chest.

“You were armed,” Taz muttered, recovering himself enough to get a firm grip on the woman.

“No one searched me,” Rand replied with a smile. “I always visit Russians with a gun in my pocket.” He walked over and nudged the body on the concrete floor. “This is Dr. Hardan, or if you prefer, Sivas, late Turkish assassin. Funny, Lanning said he even looked like one. The CIA can’t be all bad.”

“What is in the bottom of the coffin?” Taz asked.

“Something Chinese agents were anxious to smuggle into Moscow. You take it from there.”

“I will, my friend,” Taz said.

The following morning a Russian military transport was waiting at Moscow airport. Rand and Taz watched while Mrs. Belgrave led her husband to the plane, and then Rand said, “Thanks for the transportation. It saves us a wait.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rand.” The Russian seemed in good spirits.

“The coffin?”

“It’s not my department, but I understand it’s very critical. Pieces of metal, and much wiring. The more melodramatic of our people suspect they may be components of a small Chinese atomic bomb.”

Rand whistled. “You’d better watch out for the rest of it.”

“We will.” Taz paused. “And Rand, if you ever decide to accept my offer—”

“Don’t count on it. In this business we all end up poor. There’s no beating the system, Taz.” He remembered Lanning’s complaint about his low pay, and saw the CIA man walking toward them. “I’d better go now.”

The Russian nodded and waved as they parted. Then Rand fell into step with Lanning and they walked to the waiting jet. “You did a good job, Rand,” the American observed. “We just heard from Tokyo that they’ve located the real Dr. Nobea. She was drugged but unharmed.”

“It was a good job,” Rand agreed. “I helped Taz and I freed Belgrave. Sorry you couldn’t get the plan for the SUM missile while we were at it.”

Lanning started up the steps of the plane, then turned back toward Rand with a little smile. “What makes you think we didn’t get it?” he whispered.

The Spy Who Collected Lapel Pins

HE WAS NOT AN old man, but the years had not dealt kindly with Comrade Taz. As he walked across the field toward the lights of the distant farmhouse, he could feel the ache in his right leg coming back again. It was a war injury from his youth, 30 years ago, when he’d shown a fleeting moment of courage in front of a German tank on the outskirts of Berlin.

During all those years in Moscow, heading up Section Six of the KGB, he had hardly thought of the old war injury. It gave him no trouble, and he walked without a noticeable limp. It was only now, in retirement to a collective farm an hour’s drive from Moscow, that the ache and the limp had reoccurred. It was the life, his sturdy wife Lara insisted. His legs were made for walking on paved sidewalks, not trudging across newly plowed fields.

As he neared the farmhouse, he was surprised to see a black government staff car pulled in off the road. In this collective, made up entirely of former government employees, one rarely was visited by the bureaucracy. He entered the kitchen door with just a bit of apprehension, to find Lara conversing with two men in overcoats who gave the impression of having just arrived.

Taz knew one of them—Colonel Tunic, a grizzled old man who’d been his immediate superior during the Cold War days. The other, a younger official who carried himself with an air of newly acquired authority, was a stranger to him.

“Comrade Taz!” Tunic greeted him, throwing out both arms in an affectionate bear hug. “You look well. Retirement must agree with you.”

“Lara says farm work is bad on my legs. How are things back in Moscow?”

“Good, good.” He gave a rueful smile, “Détente, you know.” Remembering the other man, he turned to introduce him. “Comrade Taz, this is Stepan Vronsky, a specialist in international matters.”

The two men shook hands, and Taz wondered what Vronsky’s true function was. He wondered especially what had brought these men out here to see him. “You look cold,” he told them. “Take off your coats and have some vodka.”

“I could never live in the country,” Stepan Vronsky said. “The wind is so cold!”

Taz smiled. “One becomes used to it. Lara, bring us some glasses, will you?”

When they were seated around the rough oak kitchen table, which Lara had thoughtfully covered with a piece of flowered oilcloth, Colonel Tunic said, “We miss you in Moscow. You retired too soon.”

Taz merely shrugged. “Cipher experts of my sort have been replaced by machines. Diplomats and machines.”

“Sometimes there is still need for one,” Vronsky said. Taz turned to study his face and saw only the pale reflection of the Russian winter with its sunless days.

“We miss you,” Colonel Tunic repeated. “And now we need you. The government wishes you to come out of retirement for one final assignment to the west.”

The words fell like thunder on Taz’s ears. He’d been expecting it, certainly, ever since he saw the long black car pulled up before his house. But to hear it now was still a shock. “What sort of assignment?” he asked quietly.

“Some material must be taken to Switzerland. It’s in your line—microdots.”

Taz snorted. “A diplomatic courier could get it through for you, as you well know.”

“That’s only part of it. There’s something else.” Tunic shifted in his chair. “An old friend of yours is involved.”

“Who would that be?”

“Remember Jeffery Rand, the head of Britain’s Double-C?”

“Of course.”

Vronsky spoke again. “You should welcome an opportunity to confront an old enemy one more time.”

“Rand is not my enemy,” Taz replied. “We were two professional men doing our jobs.”

“Nevertheless, he is on the other side.”

“Yes,” Taz admitted. “Just what do you have in mind?”

“You are familiar with the Nobel Prize recipient, Kolia Komarov?”

“Certainly.” Despite nominal press censorship, almost everyone in the Soviet Union must have been aware of the Komarov case. A powerful novelist in the tradition of Turgenev, his choice as the Nobel laureate last fall had stirred up all the old fires in Russian literary circles. Though Komarov had written harshly of past Soviet governments, the men in the Kremlin did not want another Pasternak or Solzhenitsyn case on their hands. They had allowed Komarov to leave Moscow to accept the award in Stockholm. In his acceptance speech he announced to the startled world his defection from Russia.

“Then you know he’s living in Switzerland now. And you also know he was forced to leave several of his manuscripts behind when he fled.”

“Yes.”

“Komarov still has a great many friends here. Recently his wife—who fled with him to Switzerland—contacted a cousin. Arrangements were made to smuggle his manuscripts out of the country. The cousin, a loyal Party member, came to us.” Vronsky smiled slightly, proud of his accomplishment. “Specifically, to me.”

“I see.” Taz took a sip of his vodka. “And where do I fit in?”

Colonel Tunic took over the story. Despite the difference in their ages and bearing, Tunic and Vronsky might have been partners in a traveling comedy act. Taz thought about this and chuckled inwardly. He wondered why he had never laughed at Tunic during all their years together in Moscow.

“The manuscript material has been reduced to microdots,” Tunic said. “With your experience in the field, and especially your experience with Rand, you are the natural choice to deliver it.”

“Rand would hardly believe I was performing an act contrary to Soviet policy. He knows I am loyal. And you have not yet told me how Rand figures in all this.”

“Rand will be involved when you get him involved. You make contact with him and arrange a meeting in Geneva. He’ll come, of course. You explain that you have always been a great admirer of Kolia Komarov’s writing, and for this reason you have smuggled his manuscript out of Russia, in microdot form. You ask Rand’s help in getting you through the guards to visit Komarov. He does so, the microdots prove to be useless, and the British are discredited in Komarov’s eyes.”

“A trick,” Vronsky chortled. “A hoax!” The thought seemed to please him.

“Is this the way we wage war now?” Taz asked distastefully.

“We wage it any way we can.”

“You don’t need me for it,” Taz decided with a wave of his hand, as if chasing away a pesky fly.

“We need you for Rand.”

“He is not even British Intelligence. He is only one man, like myself.”

Colonel Tunic shifted uneasily. “There is more to it, Comrade. We cannot tell you everything at this point, but you must trust us.”

Lara came back into the kitchen. Taz saw her eyes catch his, but he couldn’t read the message there. Perhaps it was only a reflection of his own misgivings.

With the coming of winter London had settled beneath a dreary mantle of mist, reminding Rand of his annual promise to move to the south of France. This morning especially was one of low dark clouds that blotted out the sun. From his wide window overlooking the muddy Thames he could see only the bare outlines of the city—the new high-rise apartments, the dome of St. Paul’s that was Christopher Wren’s supreme achievement. Everything else was a somber gray blur.

He was halfway through the morning’s routine of reports and mail when Parkinson entered. “We’ve got something unusual here, sir.”

“On the Syrian matter?”

“No, it’s a message we intercepted in the old cipher the Russians used when Taz was in charge. I haven’t seen it in years.”

“Odd.”

“Odder still, the message seems addressed to you.”

Rand took the sheet of lined intercept paper that Parkinson held out. Rand, it read, you may see your old friend from Paris at the Hotel de Ville in Geneva on Monday next.

“What do you make of it, sir?”

“I don’t quite know.” The message had been sent by a route that Taz must have known the British would intercept.

But Taz was in retirement.

Or was he?

Later that day Rand phoned Hastings and told him he would be out of the country for a couple of days the following week. There was a matter in Geneva that needed checking into.

He’d always found Geneva to be a beautiful city, situated as it was at the point where the Rhone River exited from its brief journey across Lake Leman. There were lovely little parks running along both sides of the river at the point of exit, with jetties leaping out from either shore and beacons to guide the traveler.

The Hotel de Ville was in another of the city’s parks, a half mile from the water. It faces the University and the Monument of the Reformation, both flanking the Promenade des Bastions which ran through the center of the park. Rand had checked in just after three, and was considering whether the park or the shore would make the more pleasing stroll while he waited for contact.

As it turned out, the decision was made for him.

“Message for you, sir,” the clerk called as he was crossing the lobby toward the street.

“For me?”

“You are Mr. Rand?”

“That’s right.” He opened the folded piece of paper and read: Your old friend awaits you by the Jetty of the Spring Tides.

Rand smiled slightly and slipped the note into his pocket.

The Jetty of the Spring Tides was the one closest to the hotel, on the south bank of the river. He reached it after a twenty-minute walk that reminded him again of the city’s charms.

At first he didn’t recognize the iron-haired man with the beard who occupied a bench near the jetty. He’d almost gone by when a half-remembered voice said, “The lake is enchanting here, with the mountains in the background.”

“Taz!”

“Are you surprised?”

Rand sat down beside him. “Not really, I suppose. You are the only one who would have used that old cipher.”

“I’m glad you came. I didn’t know if—”

“What is it? I’d heard you retired to a farm outside Moscow.”

Taz smiled, and Rand caught the glint of a gold tooth he hadn’t noticed on their previous meetings. Perhaps Taz had never smiled then. “A collective—a special one for loyal government employees like myself. It would bear little resemblance to your farms in England.”

“What brings you to Geneva?”

“I have come out of retirement. The indispensable man.” He said it with a slight smile.

“That’s bad news for Concealed Communications.”

“Not so bad, really. Our cipher section is fully automated now—rotor-type cipher machines, one-time pads produced by machine, even electronic voice scramblers. They hardly need a man at all.”

“And yet you’ve come back.”

Taz shrugged. “A simple courier mission.” He took out one of the familiar long Russian cigarettes and lit it. “But tell me about yourself, Rand. Any thought of retirement?”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “I’m getting married soon.”

“Married?”

Rand smiled at Taz’s surprise. Hastings had been surprised too. “You may have heard of her—Leila Gaad, from Egypt. She’s been living and teaching in England since last summer.”

“Oh, yes. You shared some adventures with her, I believe, back in the days when we were active in her country.”

“Right.”

“Does she want you to retire?”

Rand nodded. “And I’m thinking seriously about it. All this détente is bad for the budget. Besides, with you retired, the fun’s gone out of it.”

Taz nodded, stroking his beard. “We can leave it for the younger men.”

“Even your writer, Kolia Komarov, has retired—at least from Russia.”

Taz seemed to tense a bit at his words. “Why do you mention Komarov?”

“Oh, come now! We’ve sparred at long distance for too many years not to know each other fairly well. At the moment the only thing of interest to the Russians in Geneva is Kolia Komarov.”

“You are correct, of course,” Taz admitted readily. “I make no secret of it. In fact, since you have guessed the purpose of my mission, perhaps you can even assist me with it.”

The whole thing was coming too easily. Rand felt as if he was being drawn into something that had been carefully orchestrated by Moscow. “How can I do that?” he asked.

“As you know, Komarov and his wife fled while in Sweden to accept his Nobel Prize. They fled without his precious manuscripts and notes. In recent weeks attempts have been made to smuggle these papers out of Russia.”

“A difficult job. I understand they’d fill a large filing cabinet.”

“That is correct.”

“Where do you fit in?”

“Here,” he answered simply. He opened an attaché case on the bench by his side and removed a stiff leather-covered folder. “My znachki collection!”

The Russian opened the folder to reveal a felt surface bedecked with dozens of colorful souvenir lapel pins and covered with a protective sheet of plastic. The collecting of such pins, Rand knew, was a popular hobby in the Soviet Union. Virtually every organization in the country minted the little emblems, which were bought and traded with relish.

“A good hobby for a retired man,” Rand observed. “In England we still collect stamps.”

“This is the lapel pin of the Rostov Bureau of Travel,” Taz said, reaching beneath the plastic sheet to remove it and hand it to Rand. “It’s very rare. I had to trade five others for it.”

The small metal disc looked something like a military decoration. Rand turned it over and studied the back. A tiny black dot was affixed to the very center of the metal. At a casual glance it might have been part of the workmanship.

“Microdot,” Rand said in a neutral tone. “On the backs of them all, I suppose.”

Taz grinned. “No one questions an old man’s hobby. Actually, it is a trick I learned from the Americans. As early as their Civil War, the Rebels were carrying minutely photographed dispatches hidden inside metal buttons. An amazing accomplishment for the early days of photography!”

Suddenly the thing fell together for Rand. “Are you telling me these microdots contain Kolia Komarov’s manuscripts and notes?”

Taz merely spread his hands in a gesture that might have meant anything. “I have contacted you because I feel you could arrange a meeting with Komarov. They say he is guarded by agents of British Intelligence.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Rand answered, a bit stiffly.

“Could I see him?”

Rand studied the lapel pin in his hand. “How do I know this is what you say it is?”

“I’ve not said what it is, but you are free to take that one and examine it.”

“Thank you.”

Taz put a hand on his shoulder. “My old friendly enemy Rand! We have been through so much together.”

Rand dropped the lapel pin into his pocket. “When will I see you?”

“I will be here at the same time tomorrow.” He patted the folder. “With my znachki.”

By the following morning Rand had an enlargement of the microdot along with a visitor from the security division of Intelligence. His name was Michael Gentres and he was a calm man who moved very slowly.

“You’re Rand, I suppose. Here’s the print you wanted.”

Rand glanced at the enlarged pages of typewritten Russian text. “What is it, Major?”

“Part of Kolia Komarov’s novel in progress. He saw it this morning and confirmed its authenticity,” Gentres replied.

“I see.”

“Is there more where this came from?”

“Apparently.” Rand shrugged.

“What’s the price?”

“I don’t really know,” Rand admitted. “My contact is willing to deliver the rest, but only to Komarov personally.”

“That might be difficult to arrange. He’s staying at a safe house and we want it to remain that way.”

“Could I see him?”

“I suppose so. You have a double-X security clearance.”

Gentres drove Rand to a little house near the edge of the city, taking care to see they weren’t followed. It was a quiet street of elderly retired people, in an older section of Geneva, and there was little to distinguish Komarov’s house from others on the street.

The man who answered the door was obviously armed and probably in the pay of British Intelligence, which had taken a special, if clandestine, interest in the Russian author’s safety. Gentres spoke a brief quotation from Keats—obviously the day’s password—and they were shown into a sparsely furnished parlor.

The woman appeared first, and Rand recognized her from newspaper pictures as Mrs. Komarov. She was both younger and prettier than the news photos had shown, with straw-colored hair and tanned skin that might have come from a youth spent in the wheatfields of central Russia. “Her name is Sasha,” Gentres said. “But she speaks no English. Her husband speaks a little.”

She sat down quietly with hands folded and after a moment Kolia Komarov himself strode into the room. Immediately Rand sensed a charging of the atmosphere. The Russian author was tall and bushy-bearded, with deep brown eyes that flashed at the person to whom he was speaking. His English was remarkably good, though his vocabulary seemed limited.

“You are Rand?” he asked, extending his hand. “A pleasure.”

Rand showed him the microdot blowup. “You saw this earlier today?”

“Yes. It is my manuscript.”

“It is possible we can recover all of it. And your notes too. They’ve been smuggled out of Russia on microdots by a man named Taz.”

He’d spoken too fast for Komarov to absorb it all, and he went back over it slowly. Finally the Russian glanced at his wife and said a few questioning words in his native tongue. When she shook her head he replied, “We know of no Taz.”

“He was a cipher expert in Moscow. He’s retired now.”

“Ah. We do not know him. Why should he do this?”

“I don’t exactly know,” Rand admitted. “But he wants to see you to deliver the rest. I could arrange it for this afternoon.”

The brown eyes flashed. “He wants me to return?”

“No, he wouldn’t have brought the manuscripts if he wanted you to go back.”

Komarov nodded. “Bring him. Then I can work.”

Rand glanced at Gentres for confirmation. “Oh, very well,” the Major said.

“Fine. I’ll try to set it up for later today.”

Taz was seated on the bench by the water, as he had been the day before. He watched Rand’s approach with an interested eye, keeping one hand always on the attaché case by his side.

“I am glad you could come,” he said, smiling broadly.

Rand sat down beside him. “I saw our man this morning. He’s most anxious to obtain the rest of the documents.”

Taz continued to smile. “I thought he would be.”

“Tell me one thing first. What’s in this for you?”

Taz shrugged. “I have always admired his writings. It is with such men as Komarov that the future of Russia lies—not with the bureaucrats in their Kremlin offices. Now that I am retired I owe my allegiance to Russia, not to the Party.”

Rand nodded. “I think you’ve made a wise choice. I’ll take you to see Kolia Komarov.”

“How soon?”

“Later this afternoon if you’d like. After dark might be best, when there are fewer people to see you. His location is a secret, but your people may already have it under observation.”

“I wouldn’t want them to observe my arrival,” Taz admitted.

“I thought not.” Rand mused for a moment. “I could have my car pick you up at the park across from my hotel.”

“That would be fine.”

“Shall we say five thirty? It’ll be dark by then.”

“Good.”

Rand got to his feet. “The park across from the Hotel de Ville, then. I’ll be in the car, with a driver and perhaps another man.” He was thinking that Gentres might insist on joining them, and he could offer no objection to that.

“Until then,” Taz said, and they shook hands.

Heading back to his hotel, Rand hoped this wouldn’t be a night like one other he’d spent in Switzerland years earlier. That time, on a mission to Berne involving the Chinese embassy, Rand had been double-crossed by his own people. The memory of it still rankled. If he couldn’t trust his own people, whom could he trust?

Taz?

Colonel Tunic greeted him with a smile, throwing open his arms. “How did your meeting go?”

“Very well,” Taz acknowledged. “Rand is picking me up across from his hotel at five thirty.”

“To see Kolia Komarov?”

“Yes.”

Colonel Tunic gripped him by both shoulders. “Excellent! Excellent! I knew you would not fail us. Do you hear that, Stepan?”

Vronsky came in from the other room. Their suite in Geneva’s other leading hotel was hardly austere enough to inspire confidence in the workers back home, Taz decided, but then the workers would never know about it.

“Good news.” Vronsky agreed. “Do you have the znachki?”

“Right here,” Taz said, opening the attaché case.

Vronsky took the folder and opened it, revealing the assorted lapel pins. “Now here is what you will do. Deliver this to Kolia Komarov at the safe house where he’s staying. Spend a few minutes with him, and then leave at once. You understand?”

Taz was just beginning to. “You said back home there was more to it.”

“And there is. But you don’t want them to discover the microdots are faked, do you? At least, not while you’re in the room.”

Taz suddenly felt very tired. “The microdots are not faked. I examined several of them myself this morning with a magnifying glass.”

“Why would you do that?” Colonel Tunic asked. “Did you doubt our word?”

“With cause, it seems. You told me it was to be a hoax.”

“And so it will. Please do not spoil our careful planning, Comrade Taz.”

Taz sat down then, in one of the ornate golden-armed chairs. “I remember a story,” he said slowly. “It happened a decade ago in a Middle Eastern country. One of our code clerks at the embassy there was ordered to commit an act of political assassination. The KGB supplied him with an electrically operated pistol and poisoned bullets. The fact that he was in cryptography meant nothing to those higher up. He was simply one more tool to be used and discarded. As you must remember, the assassination was successful.”

“We remember,” Colonel Tunic said dryly.

“And Kolia Komarov?”

A shrug. “Deliver the znachki, Comrade.”

“Is this all I am good for after a lifetime of service?”

Vronsky still held the leather-covered folder in his hands. He reached under the protective plastic covering and made a slight adjustment to one of the metal pins. Then he closed the cover and handed the folder back to Taz. “Now then, no more foolish talk. Deliver it, and then leave the house at once.”

Taz sighed and accepted the folder. “Tell me one thing. Why did you need to copy all the material? Why make all the microdots authentic?”

“Rand is no fool. He might have asked to examine some at random. Besides, it makes no difference. Kolia Komarov will never use the material.”

“The public outcry—”

“Will be directed against the British who were guarding him. We will deny everything, of course. You will be safely back home. The Moscow intellectuals will have received a warning they can’t ignore. And Rand will be dead or in disgrace.”

“Yes,” Taz said slowly. “Yes, I see.” He placed the folder carefully inside his attaché case, handling it with new respect. Then he rose to his feet. “I must be going. It is almost time.”

Stepan Vronsky had a final word of caution. “You saw the lapel pin I adjusted. Do not touch it under any circumstances.”

“I understand.”

“Good luck, Comrade.”

Rand tapped the driver on the shoulder. “That’s him, across the street. And right on time.”

“I don’t know about this,” Michael Gentres said uneasily. “London wouldn’t like it.”

“We’re getting Komarov’s manuscripts back, aren’t we?”

“Couldn’t that have been done without Taz meeting the man?”

“Do you expect him to pull a gun out of his pocket and begin shooting?”

“Stranger things have happened. They used an ax on Trotsky.”

“I assume you’ll search him for axes and guns,” Rand said dryly.

They pulled up before the waiting man and Rand opened the door on his side. “You British are very prompt,” Taz said as he climbed in with his attaché case.

“We try to be,” Rand answered. “This is Michael Gentres, Comrade Taz.” He didn’t introduce the driver because Gentres hadn’t mentioned his name. But the man seemed to know their destination without being told. He drove quickly through the dark streets of the city, negotiating turns with the skill of a London cabby. Rand would not have remembered the route to the safe house, but the driver apparently knew it by heart.

Presently they pulled up before the house Rand had visited earlier. There was a man on duty inside the door and he opened it as they approached. “You’ll have to be searched,” Gentres told Taz.

“Of course,” the Russian replied, obviously expecting it.

The man at the door ran his hands quickly over Taz’s body, then used a battery-operated metal detector for a more careful search. Each time it buzzed the Russian produced his keys or cigarette case and other metal objects, all of which were examined. There was also a portable x-ray unit, similar to those used to inspect carry-on luggage at airports. The attaché case with its folder of lapel pins was passed behind the screen while they watched.

“All right,” Gentres said with a grunt, satisfied with the rows of metal emblems that appeared on the x-ray screen. “You can take the folder in, but leave the attaché case out here.”

Taz did as he was told, removing the znachki with care. “This is a great moment for me,” he said quietly. “I have admired Kolia Komarov for many years.”

The driver and the guard remained by the door, while Gentres escorted Rand and Taz into the living room. They sat waiting quietly, and after a few minutes the bearded Komarov appeared as he had done earlier in Rand’s presence. He looked around the room uncertainly, and bowed slightly to Taz.

“My znachki collection,” Taz said, speaking English so the others could understand. “You should find it quite interesting.”

Komarov accepted it and opened the folder, gazing down at the rows of little metal lapel pins. “Once I had them too,” he said, speaking with some difficulty. “Back in Moscow.”

“But not like these. Examine the backs.” Taz bent over and slipped one of the lapel pins from under the plastic cover. “See?”

Rand stepped closer to look. The microdot was in place, at the exact center of the pin’s reverse side. “Do you have viewing equipment here?” he asked Gentres.

“Certainly.”

The microdot was inserted into an optical viewer and immediately blown up to readable size. The neatly arranged pages of Kolia Komarov’s manuscript leaped into view. “Is it authentic?” Rand asked the author.

“It seems so. Yes, I remember these pages.”

Rand looked up at Taz. “And the rest?”

Taz motioned toward the collection. “There are forty-eight lapel pins. Each of them contains a microdot. Each microdot can be enlarged to show dozens of typewritten pages. I leave them to you.”

“You’re going?”

“I have been here too long already. They may be watching my hotel.”

“What—” Rand said, not knowing why he spoke. There was something not quite right. “Can I see you alone for a moment, Taz?”

“Certainly.”

They stepped into the next room, leaving Gentres and Komarov alone with the folder of lapel pins. Rand faced him and sighed. “Taz, my old enemy—”

“What is it?”

“The znachki is just too large for a mere forty-eight microdots. They could be carried on your passport, or in a bandage on your finger. In our business, large attracts attention, and all attention is bad. Ever since the days of the Trojan Horse we have had reason to question anything that is larger than it should be.”

“Trojan Horse?”

“You remember it, surely. Could your znachki be a Trojan Horse, Comrade Taz?”

“In what way?”

“Not a listening device, because that would have shown up on the x-ray. But something nonmetallic, like a thin layer of plastic explosive hidden in the leather binding, would pass inspection. One of the lapel pins could be the detonator, and when it was removed from the felt backing—”

Gentres interrupted with a call from the next room. “Rand, we’ve checked all the lapel pins. There are forty-eight microdots, just as he said. We’re starting to view them now.”

“Taz allowed himself a slight smile. “So much for your theory, Mr. Rand. If it was correct, we would all be in pieces now.”

“I’m sorry,” Rand said simply.

“Now I really must be going. Perhaps we will see each other again someday.”

Rand followed him to the door. “They’re waiting for you outside? Is that it?”

Taz picked up his attaché case and opened it. Rand caught a glimpse of a second znachki folder, identical with the first. The driver and the guard were watching them, and Taz stepped very close so his words could not be overheard. “Understand one thing about me, Rand. I have no love for the West, no love for your system. Someday we will still bury you. But I am a proud old man, and I do not come out of retirement to ply an assassin’s trade. The znachki collection you have is harmless. I changed one of the pins.”

“Then I was right?”

Taz merely smiled. “Perhaps this is one time when we both were right, my old enemy.”

He opened the door and stepped outside. The street seemed deserted, and he started off along the sidewalk. “The car can take you back,” Rand called. Taz kept walking, ignoring him.

“Follow him,” Rand told the driver. “But at a distance. I want to know if he’s picked up.”

“I have to take my orders from Major Gentres, sir.”

Rand cursed softly. “Never mind. I’ll do it myself.” He slipped on his coat and followed Taz.

Colonel Tunic was holding open the door of the car when Taz reached it. He’d walked for three blocks, and had been about to give up searching for them. “We did not want to get too close,” Tunic said. “How did it go?”

“Well.”

Vronsky sat behind the wheel of the car. “Is that all? I heard no explosion.”

“You will not hear one,” Taz said firmly. “I do not fight my wars that way. I am not the simple code clerk in that Middle Eastern embassy, ready to jump when the KGB pulls the strings.”

Colonel Tunic bit his lip. “Comrade Taz, where is the folder?”

“Right here,” Taz said, opening his attaché case.

In the front seat Vronsky yanked the pistol from his coat and fired once at Taz’s chest.

He was just an instant too late.

Rand was still a block away when the explosion shattered the night on the quiet street. His reflexes threw him to the pavement for an instant. Then he was up and running toward the flaming car.

People were rushing from the houses, and after a moment the pulsating whine of a siren could be heard in the distance. He could see it was too late to help the car’s occupants. He tried to get close, but the flames drove him back.

Presently Gentres joined him. “Was that Taz?” he asked.

Rand nodded solemnly. “Looks as if there were one or two others with him.”

“My God. That could have been us.”

“No,” Rand said. “Taz decided it wouldn’t be us.”

“You mean he turned against his own people?”

“I think it had something to do with a man’s pride in his work. I think they recruited the wrong person for this job.”

“Definitely the wrong person,” Gentres said, watching the flames.

“But it was a close one for Komarov. They were able to follow your driver here.”

The fire engines had arrived, and a stream of water hit the blazing car with a hiss and shower of sparks. They moved back out of the way.

“Not such a close one,” Gentres said. “You see, I didn’t trust Taz as much as you did, Rand. And Russians with full black beards look pretty much alike. The real Kolia Komarov is ten miles from here. Perhaps in the morning you’d like to meet him.”

The Spy Who Came Back from the Dead

“NO,” RAND REPEATED, PACING the living-room floor with an after-dinner brandy in his hand while his wife Leila watched from the sofa next to Hastings. “Damn it, every time you come out here for dinner it’s some new intrigue! I retired from Double-C to get away from all that. The last time you even involved Leila in some dangerous business. That’s the end of it. No more! She’s teaching and I’m writing and we’re quite peaceful here in the country.”

“At least give me an opportunity to—”

But Rand cut him off. “No! We’ll welcome you as a friend any time you come, but there’s to be no talk of business, and especially no talk of new assignments for me. In the years since I’ve retired I’ve been almost as busy as I was before!”

“Oh, that’s hardly the case, Rand,” Hastings protested. “You have your days free to work on your memoirs, and Leila teaches at the University. It’s a perfect existence, really, and if I show up once in six months to disrupt things a bit you should be thankful the British government still has such a high regard for your talents.”

“They used my talents for a good many years, but that’s over now. I don’t even do the cipher puzzles in the Sunday paper any more.”

“Still, those were great days with you in London and Taz in Moscow, during the depths of the Cold War.”

“The world changed,” Rand reminded him. “Now we have arms limitation treaties with the Russians.”

“Taz was certainly a worthy opponent.”

“He was,” Rand agreed. “He retired too, remember—but the Russians talked him into coming back for one more assignment. He ended up dead when he set off a bomb in a car.”

Hastings nodded. “Geneva, Switzerland, 1975. I remember it very well. You retired shortly after that.”

“Taz chose to die, and kill a couple of his Russian comrades, rather than kill me and some other people.” Rand stared into his brandy glass. “After that I decided it was time to get out of the business. And of course Leila helped with that decision.”

“What would you say if I told you Taz was still alive?”

“That’s impossible! I saw the body!”

“Nevertheless, he seems to have returned from the dead, if he was ever really among them.”

“Impossible!” Rand repeated, but with less assurance. Was anything really impossible in the shadowy underworld of espionage? “If he’s back from the dead what’s he been up to?”

“Killing people,” Hastings answered. “The Russians want our help in finding him.”

“Our help?”

“Exactly. And that’s why we need you, Rand. You knew him. He even showed some admiration for you in his later days. If anyone can find him and bring him out of hiding, it’s you.”

“The man is dead, Hastings!” Rand insisted.

“Just try for a moment accepting the fact that he might not be. That he’s active and causing trouble for both sides now. Would that be enough to tempt you back?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly.

“Would you at least meet with someone?”

“Who?” Rand asked.

“A Russian named Cornelius. At least that’s his code name. He’ll be on the Holyhead to Dublin ferry tomorrow morning.”

Rand thought about it for a long time. Finally he turned to Leila and asked, “Should I do it?”

“Will you be happy if you don’t?”

Rand took the early train from London to Holyhead and then strode across the station and a little outer courtyard to the adjoining ferry dock. He was just in time to board the last morning ferry to Dublin—a three-hour journey across the Irish Sea in a modern ship that carried cars as well as passengers and offered all the comforts of a night at the club.

Rand sat for a time in the plush armchair of the first-class section, until the ship was clear of the docks and well out to sea. Then he went for a casual stroll around the deck. Even in late June the breeze on the Irish Sea could be brisk and chilling, and he saw at once that he was the only passenger who’d ventured out. Next he checked the darkened room where television or movies could be viewed, but only a few children were in there. Two decks below, the large restaurant had a good noonday crowd, but no one that he sought.

Finally, in the bar and lounge on the deck above the restaurant, his search was rewarded. He purchased a beer from the Irish bartender and carried it over to one of the little round cocktail tables bolted to the floor. A man wearing a red plaid vest and a gray suit sat reading a copy of the latest John LeCarré novel. He glanced up as Rand asked, “Could I share this table?”

“Certainly, old chap.” The words were English, but the accent was not quite perfect. Rand knew he had found his man.

“Nice crossing today.”

“It is that,” the man agreed.

“How’s the book?”

“Oh, you know these spy things. Quite far-fetched.”

“I’d have thought differently. I knew a man once who was in the business.”

Rand’s table companion closed the book and glanced casually around the bar. No one was close enough to overhear their conversation. “You would be Rand?” he asked.

“Yes. And you’re Cornelius?”

“As good a name as any,” he replied. He was a tall slim man whose gaunt features reminded Rand of the villains in the old war movies. He looked, in truth, more German than Russian.

“You wanted to see me?”

“My superiors suggested you could help.” He dropped his gaze to the bulging briefcase that served Rand as an overnight bag.

Reading his thoughts, Rand said, “There is no recording device. I’ll open it if you want.”

“Not necessary. We must trust one another.”

Rand dropped his voice another notch, keeping his expression casual.

“Taz is dead. I saw the body myself,” he said firmly.

“In an explosion many things are possible. A last-minute substitution, for example. The body was badly burned?”

“Yes,” Rand admitted. “But what is your evidence that he’s alive?”

Cornelius stared at his drink. “Three of our best field agents have been killed during the past two months. Their throats were cut. The first lived long enough to write Taz’s name in Russian on his desktop at our embassy in Vienna. He used his own blood to do it.”

“Just Taz, nothing more?”

“Nothing more. After that Taz’s old Moscow office received a letter from him.”

Rand’s interest perked. “A letter?”

“Typewritten. Here’s a translation of it.”

Rand read the brief note: The body in Vienna was only the first. The Tsar Network betrayed the cause of the Revolution and all its members must die. I have come back to do this and will not be stopped. Taz.

“What is the Tsar Network?” Rand asked.

He hesitated at first, as if weighing how much to tell. Then he said, “The Tsar Network operated in the early 1960s, using seven agents who were known to each other only by the names of the last seven Tsars of Imperial Russia. It operated in various European cities with the aim of gaining intelligence regarding NATO military strength. The network collapsed in 1965 when one of its key agents, Tsar Paul, was captured and killed by West German intelligence agents. We didn’t know how much Paul told before he died, so the network was immediately shut down and the surviving six agents shifted to other assignments.”

“I never heard Paul referred to as a Tsar,” said Rand, who knew something of Russian history.

“The term is interchangeable with Emperor. Most Russian rulers called themselves Emperor, though the final one, Nicholas II, preferred the older, more Russian, title of Tsar. In the network all seven agents used Tsar. There were Nicholas II, Alexander III, Alexander II, Nicholas I, Alexander I, Paul, and Catherine the Great.”

“A woman?”

“Yes. One woman and six men. With the death of Paul five men were left alive.”

“Who was the first man to have his throat slit?”

“Alexander II, in Vienna.”

“Tell me about him.”

“There is little to tell. He was an exceptional agent, especially in his command of the English language. He had a British mother and it was really his native tongue. They said back in Moscow he even thought in English. He was in deep cover with the NATO forces—a mole, to use LeCarré’s term.” He gestured toward the book on the table. “Personally, I thought he should have remained where he was, but when Paul was killed the people in Moscow panicked. The entire network was shut down and Alexander II was shifted to Vienna—under another designation, of course.”

“You said three agents had been killed.”

Cornelius nodded. “A few weeks after that letter arrived, Nicholas I died in Madrid. Again, the throat was cut.”

“Had he been warned of the letter from Taz?”

“Not directly. It was not taken too seriously at first. After Nicholas I died, of course, the others were warned. But it did no good. Alexander I was killed in Amsterdam last week.”

“Throat cut?”

“Yes. Exactly like the others.”

“Did the second or third victims live long enough to leave a message?”

“No.”

Rand leaned back in his chair. “Why does Moscow want my help? We’re still something like enemies, you know.”

Cornelius nodded. “I agree, but the decision was not mine to make. I am simply following instructions. The feeling seems to be that you knew Taz, were even friendly with him for a time. Friendly enemies of a sort. Moscow knows all too well how you managed to anticipate his movements on more than one occasion. They hope you can do it again. Three members of the Tsar Network are still alive. We want to keep them alive.”

“Maybe there’s another reason too,” Rand speculated. “Like Taz, I’m retired. I won’t feel obliged to report everything I learn to British Intelligence.” He paused a moment. “And British Intelligence won’t feel obliged to make an international incident out of it if you kill me after I find Taz.”

“No, no.” Cornelius insisted with a shake of his head. “You English always think of killing! You are still fighting the old war. Russia today is content to let time work on its side. I can assure you of your personal safety, once Taz is found.”

“Have there been any other letters since the first?”

“No letters, but there was a telephone call after the second killing. He phoned the man who had replaced him in Moscow.”

“Was it Taz’s voice?” For the first time Rand seriously considered the possibility that his old foe could be still alive.

“The man met Taz only once. He couldn’t be certain.”

“What did the message say?”

“That the Tsar Network had betrayed the Revolution.

“In what way?”

“Mr. Rand, a madman needs no reasons. It seems obvious that Taz is both alive and insane.”

Rand considered the courses open to him. “Three members of the Tsar Network remain alive. Is that correct?”

“Yes. Nicholas II, Alexander III, and Catherine the Great.”

“Where are they?”

“Nicholas is in Dublin at the moment. I am on my way to see him. We’re not certain just where Catherine is. She was in Paris, but she left there ten days ago after receiving our second warning.”

“And Alexander III?”

Cornelius bowed his head slightly. “He sits before you, Mr. Rand. I am Alexander III. Or I was, back in those days.”

“I see.”

“You can understand that I have a personal interest in finding Taz before he succeeds in killing the entire Tsar Network.”

“Indeed.”

“I hope you will come with me to meet Nicholas.”

“I’ll come,” Rand agreed quietly.

It was not a long drive from the ferry dock to downtown Dublin, and the sun was still high in the afternoon sky when their taxi crossed the River Liffey and drew up in front of the hotel on O’Connell Street. Cornelius paid the driver and said to Rand, “I will not be staying the night, but if you wish to remain for a day or so, this is a fine hotel.”

“Thanks. Where do we meet Nicholas?”

Cornelius hesitated again, reluctant to reveal more than was absolutely necessary. “He is a member of the Russian delegation here, employed at our embassy. We won’t be going there, though. I’ll phone and arrange a meeting elsewhere.”

The meeting came two hours later, in a Catholic church only a block from the hotel. “They never suspect Communists of meeting in a church,” Cornelius said with a chuckle. “It has served me well in many cities.”

Rand stood near the back of the church, watching a few people drift in for a visit following their day’s work. Some paused by a side altar to drop a coin in a meter and snap on one of the electric vigil lights that glowed in steady rows. A strange leap into the modern age, Rand thought, for a country and a church so deeply rooted in the traditional ways.

Presently Cornelius touched his elbow and went forward to intercept a stout man of medium height with horn-rimmed glasses and slicked-down blond hair. If Cornelius reminded Rand of the villain in an old Nazi film, the man with the code name of Nicholas II looked more like a prosperous American banker.

“Alexander,” he said, speaking softly. “It is good to see you again.” The name surprised Rand, until he remembered the members of the Tsar Network had known each other only by their code names.

“My old friend, I come in a time of great peril for both of us. You have been warned about Taz?”

“Of course.”

“This man is Rand, late of British Intelligence.” He added quickly, “Do not fear! He’s here to help us. He knew Taz and in fact was present at the explosion that apparently killed him.”

Nicholas shifted nervously, glancing about the church. “Taz telephoned me.”

“When?” Rand asked.

“Just last evening, at my embassy quarters. He offered to let me live if I would reveal the present locations of Catherine and Alexander. I could not, of course. I did not know them.”

“So he threatened to kill you?” Rand studied the man as he spoke, looking for anything unusual. But Nicholas seemed only to be a badly frightened bureaucrat.

“I told him I knew very little about the Tsar Network. I told him I was not worth killing.”

“Had you ever spoken to Taz before?”

“No.”

Rand turned back to Cornelius. “What was Taz’s connection with the Tsar Network?”

“No direct connection, although of course his work with the communications section made him aware of our activities.”

“What were those activities?” Rand wanted to know. “What was it that Taz could possibly construe as harming the Revolution?”

“Nothing,” Nicholas insisted. “Absolutely nothing!”

Cornelius glanced at his watch. “I must catch the last ferry back to Holyhead. Will you be staying, Mr. Rand?”

“If Taz phoned here last night he could be very close. I’ll stay, at least for a day or so.”

“Very well.”

“You’re in danger too,” Nicholas reminded Cornelius. “He’s after you.”

Cornelius brushed aside the warning. “Within forty-eight hours I’ll be back at my desk in Moscow. I am safer than those of you on foreign soil.”

“And Catherine? She is the only other one left alive.”

“True,” Cornelius admitted. “But I have not seen her in fifteen years.”

“She was a beautiful girl then.”

“We were all younger. Today we are old and tired—right, Nicholas?”

“You do well in the Kremlin, old friend, while I waste away here in Dublin. When the revolution sweeps across Europe, I hardly think Ireland will be one of its first targets.”

They shook hands and Cornelius turned to Rand. “Do what you can for us.”

“And if I find Taz?”

“Do what is best.”

Then he was gone.

“I must get back to my quarters,” the man known as Nicholas said.

Rand handed him a slip of paper. “Here’s my phone number at the hotel. If Taz calls again, telephone me at once. Otherwise I’ll be in touch tomorrow. Whom should I ask for at the embassy?”

Even then Nicholas was reluctant to reveal his real name. “I will call you, Mr. Rand.”

“Be careful.”

“If Taz comes for me, he will not have an easy time of it.”

Rand left the church first, walking quickly back to his hotel. Indeed, he decided, the world was changing. Who would have thought he’d ever be having a secret meeting with Russian agents in the back of a church, or using his wits to try saving their lives?

These thoughts were still in his mind as he unlocked the room assigned to him and stepped over the threshold. He was hardly expecting the beautiful dark-haired woman who came out of the bathroom with a Beretta pistol pointed at his stomach.

Rand smiled and gave a little bow. “Let me guess—you’d be Catherine the Great.”

“Your intelligence is only equaled by your bravado, Mr. Rand. Has my fame preceded me?”

“Within the hour I heard a compliment to your beauty, which was certainly justified.” He guessed her to be nearing 40, which meant she’d been under 25 in the active days of the Tsar Network. The Russians would have found her of great use in prying NATO secrets from tired middle-aged generals. “Why don’t you put away that gun so we can talk?”

“The gun stays, for the moment. I want to know what you’re doing in Dublin, Mr. Rand, and why you arrived here in the company of Alexander III. I assume you know that designation since you addressed me as Catherine.”

He took a careful step closer. “I do indeed. And I know of the Tsar Network too. A bit of humor, that—with seven Russian agents using code names of dead Russian emperors.”

“We were quite serious at the time.”

“And quite successful too, I imagine, until Paul fell victim to West German counterintelligence. Tell me something—why is Taz trying to kill you all?”

“I don’t believe Taz is.” He could see now that her eyes were green. “Taz is dead.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling those fools,” Rand agreed. “But if Taz isn’t killing them, who is?”

“I think you are, Mr. Rand, which is why I’m holding this gun.”

“Me! That’s insane!”

“Is it? The British would like nothing better than to remove a half-dozen top enemy agents without being blamed for it. This way we fight among ourselves, suspecting each other, while you go about your business. After all, you were present when Taz met his end. You’re in the best position to know the body could never be fully identified.”

“You know a great deal about me.”

“After Tsar folded I was reassigned to Moscow. I worked under Taz in the early ’70s, and he told me a great deal about you.”

“Then you knew him well.”

“Well enough. He had a candid photo of you on his office wall.”

“I never knew that. Did you throw darts at it?”

“No. Taz had a great deal of respect for you.”

“And yet you think I’d do something like this? Kill off Russian agents and blame it on him?”

“We are still enemies, Mr. Rand. My eyes are not clouded by SALT treaties and good-will missions.”

“Moscow asked for my help. I came out of retirement to find Taz, if he’s still alive.”

“They asked for you?” She frowned and considered that bit of information. “It’s difficult to believe.”

“It’s difficult for me too. But that’s what I’m doing here. Cornelius—the man you know as Alexander—met me on the ferry from Holyhead this morning. Apparently I did so well outwitting Taz in life they think I can do it now that he’s dead too.” He’d moved close enough to grab the gun from her hand, but he hesitated, waiting for her next words.

“All right,” she said, lowering the weapon. “I will take a chance.”

“Good! Now suppose we talk about this over a drink.”

But she balked at that. “If what you say is true I must be on my way. A moving target is more difficult to hit.”

“Certainly you can’t think Taz would come after you!”

“Taz, or whoever.”

“Anyone could have left that dying message with Taz’s name.”

“No, anyone couldn’t,” she said. “That’s one reason Moscow is now treating this whole thing so seriously. As I understand it, Paul was writing the message in his blood when they found him. With his throat cut he couldn’t speak, and he died before they could help him. But the message was not faked.”

“Someone could have impersonated Taz, of course.”

“Why impersonate a dead man? Why not simply wear a mask?” She tucked the gun away in her purse. “The killer couldn’t have known Paul would live long enough to identify him.”

“I don’t know the answers,” Rand admitted. “But I have more questions. Who knew you were in Paris, and why did you leave so suddenly?”

“Moscow knew where I was, of course. No one else did. When I heard of the last killing in Amsterdam it seemed wise to move on. I could have returned to Moscow, but I knew Nicholas was assigned to our Dublin embassy, so I came here.”

“Then you know the true identity of Nicholas, not just his old code name?”

“I worked in Moscow for many years, you’ll remember. We learn such things there.”

“You speak English very well.”

She smiled. “It was one of the requirements of the Tsar Network. Before we were recruited we had to know the language from A to Z.”

“I wish I could say I knew Russian from A to Z.”

“That would be difficult, since there is no Z in the Russian alphabet.”

“That’s right. I remember a fellow who worked in the cipher room with me. When the message came through in Russian he used to say he knew the language from A to three, because—”

The telephone by the bed gave two sharp jingles, startling them both.

Rand picked it up and heard a voice he recognized as belonging to Nicholas. “Taz just phoned me,” he said. “Not five minutes ago.”

“What did he say?”

“The same as before—that he’d let me live if I told him where the others were. He wants to meet me tonight at ten.”

“Where?”

“In the courtyard at Trinity College, near the library.”

“Go there, but be careful. I’ll try to arrive early and get a look at him. If it is Taz, it’s time we put an end to this. Do you have a gun?”

“Yes,” Nicholas replied. “I’ll be safe enough.”

“Get there a few minutes late, so I have time to locate him.”

“All right.”

Rand hung up and told Catherine about the meeting. “I want to come with you,” she said.

“Don’t be foolish. You’re a target too. Stay here in my room.”

“All right,” she agreed, much too readily.

He ordered dinner sent up to the room so they wouldn’t be seen together. If Taz was on the prowl in Dublin he could be anywhere. Later, as they ate, he asked, “What is Nicholas’ real name?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I might need to know, and he wouldn’t tell me.”

“It is Max Satatov.”

“Thank you.” He made a note of it.

As he prepared to leave she placed a delicate hand on his arm. “Be careful, Mr. Rand.”

Outside the streets were slick and glowing with a light summer drizzle that had begun to fall, almost invisibly, and Rand was glad he’d packed a lightweight raincoat. The rain was not heavy enough to seek out a taxi, and he walked quickly south across O’Connell Bridge, then a few blocks to Trinity College. He could feel the sharp stones of the courtyard through his shoes as he passed the gate and crossed in the general direction of the library building. Except for a few summer students he passed in the dark, the college seemed almost deserted. The rain had glistened the stones of the courtyard to reflect the occasional lights from a window, but most was darkness. He wondered how he’d ever find Nicholas or Taz here.

Or would only one be waiting for him?

He moved carefully among the shadows, hoping to spot some movement before he was himself seen. For a quarter of an hour there was nothing except the occasional passage of students on their way back from the library. Then, as he pressed his digital watch to read the time as 10:06, he heard a low groan from the shadows of a nearby building. He stepped out cautiously, ready for a sudden attack, and his eyes made out the figure of a man supporting himself with one outstretched arm against the building’s wall.

Rand moved closer and saw the dim features of Nicholas. The man tried to speak, and then Rand saw the blood welling up from beneath his chin. Before Rand could reach him, Nicholas collapsed to the ground.

Rand turned him over and felt for a pulse, but it was too late. Taz had claimed a fourth member of the Tsar Network.

There was a sound of movement farther into the shadows of the building, and Rand moved quickly. His searching hands encountered the sleek plastic of a raincoat and he grappled with the other figure until a little screech of pain brought recognition.

“Catherine!”

“God, Rand, you almost killed me!”

“I told you to wait in the room.”

“I get nervous waiting. What’s happened here?”

“Nicholas is dead. His throat was cut, not moments ago.”

She took a frightened step backward and almost stumbled over the body. “Then Taz must be here!”

“Perhaps. An hour ago you weren’t so sure he was alive.”

“But he phoned Nicholas!”

“Or else Nicholas made up the story.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Suppose Nicholas and some other member of the old Tsar Network plotted the murders together. Suppose getting me here tonight was just another stunt to indicate Taz was alive. And then suppose Nicholas was double-crossed and killed by his partner.”

“You think I killed him?”

“It’s certainly possible.”

“But why? Why would I kill any of them?”

He couldn’t see her eyes in the dark, but he remembered how green they were. “I think it all goes back to the first one to die—Tsar Paul, fifteen years ago. Who betrayed Paul to the West Germans, Catherine?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“It was a member of the network, wasn’t it? Is that why Taz thought you all had to die, because one of you was a traitor?”

“I didn’t kill anyone. I don’t know what happened to Paul. I don’t—”

Something clattered against the cobblestone pavement and Rand turned, the misty rain on his face. He froze as he saw the tall figure step from the shadows not 20 feet away. Instinctively he placed his body between Catherine and the newcomer.

“Good evening, Mr. Rand,” a voice said, thick with accent. Rand couldn’t remember if he’d ever heard it before.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“We last met in Switzerland, some years ago.”

“Taz?”

The figure moved a bit but kept to the shadows. “I did not die in that explosion, though it was a very near thing. I’ve come back now, Mr. Rand—back from the dead, as they say.”

“You killed Nicholas and the others?”

“I killed them, yes. They didn’t deserve to live. It is my good fortune that Catherine has come here too. Now I can make an end to this business.”

He moved then, and Rand saw the glint of light reflected off the knife blade. There was no time to reach his own gun and he knew the blade would strike him down on its way to Catherine’s throat. He knew, and was frozen there seconds from death suddenly remembering a sentence he’d never finished.

“…he knew the language from A to three, because in Russian the symbol for Z looks just like a 3.”

“You’re not Taz!” he shouted as the knifer lunged. And behind him Catherine the Great stepped into the shimmering reflected light and fired three quick shots with her little Beretta.

The figure with the knife staggered, half turned, and toppled to the wet stones.

It wasn’t Taz.

It was Cornelius.

Rand left the bodies there and took Catherine with him on the next ferry back to Holyhead. There was no point in involving the Irish police in a complicated story they’d never understand. He would make his report to Hastings, for transmission to the Russians, and they could carry on as they pleased.

Seated across from Catherine on the ferry, Rand said, “You have to realize the backwards nature of the thing. Cornelius never meant to impersonate Taz at the beginning—I’m sure of that. He was forced into it, to cover up the real meaning of the first victim’s dying message.”

“Real meaning? But the man wrote TAZ in his own blood!”

“Not exactly. Alexander II was killed in the Russian embassy in Vienna, so we can safely assume his body was found by Russians. They reported, and I was told, that the dying man wrote Taz’s name in Russian! But consider the facts. The members of the Tsar network were recruited for their expertise in English, and the first victim actually had it as a native tongue thanks to a British mother. It was said he thought in English. So it’s more likely his dying message was written in English rather than Russian.”

“Of course!” she agreed readily. “There is no Z in the Russian alphabet! TAZ would be written TA3 in Russian.”

“Exactly. The Russian symbol for Z looks exactly like the number 3. If the dying man wrote in English, which I’ve shown is likely, then he was writing TA3 and not the name of the dead Russian.”

“TA3.”

“A dying man’s quick abbreviation of Tsar Alexander III, the only name by which he’d ever known Cornelius.”

“But what about the letter and phone calls from Taz?”

“Cornelius realized the meaning of the dying message at once, naturally, but when the people in Moscow mistook it for a reference to the dead Taz he strengthened the theory by writing that letter. The phone calls, carefully placed to people not familiar with Taz’s voice, did the same. As long as they were thinking about Taz, they weren’t looking for another meaning to TA3.”

“He would have killed me too.”

“Yes, he would have. Both of us. Actually what puzzled me from the beginning was how Taz could know the cities these old agents were working in. And even more puzzling, how he could get close enough to cut their throats even after they’d been warned. Cornelius held an important Moscow post, with access to that information. And even men on their guard against Taz relaxed when they saw it was him—their old comrade from the Tsar Network. He even got to Nicholas, who was armed and expecting an attack.”

Catherine thought of something. “What did you do with my Beretta?”

“Left it in Nicholas’ hand. If the police think they killed each other, so much the better.”

“Why did Cornelius do it?”

“Moscow sent him to make contact with me, so he was high up in the chain of command. I suspect he was in line for an even bigger position, and he felt the need to remove any trace of a past indiscretion. I think Cornelius betrayed Paul to the West Germans fifteen years ago. Either that or some bungle of his caused Paul’s arrest. In any case, he had to silence the witnesses, the members of the old Tsar Network, before he’d be safe in his new position.”

“And you came into it only because of Taz? Because you wanted a chance to battle him again?”

“No,” Rand answered, remembering the old Russian’s face the last time they’d met. “I wanted a chance to prove him innocent of these murders.”

At Holyhead they shook hands rather formally before parting, and Catherine the Great said, “Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

Rand answered with a smile. “But if we do, we’ll probably be enemies.”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1970, 1976, 1980 by Edward D. Hoch

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