The Kremlin Letter Read online

HIGHWAYMAN

  TO:

  UNCLE MORRIS

  FROM:

  SWEET ALICE

  LAWYER REPRESENTING VOLUME SLAMMED DOOR IN LIBRARIAN’S FACE. SAYS VOLUME WILL NEVER GO BACK ON SHELF.

  Rone smiled to himself.

  EXHIBIT:

  18

  DATE: SEPTEMBER 29

  SUBJECT:

  HIGHWAYMAN

  TO:

  SWEET ALICE

  FROM:

  UNCLE MORRIS

  SUGGEST YOU SEE LAWYER YOURSELF.

  EXHIBIT:

  19

  DATE SEPTEMBER 29

  SUBJECT:

  HIGHWAYMAN

  TO:

  UNCLE MORRIS

  FROM:

  SWEET ALICE

  OWNER INTERESTED IN SELLING VOLUME TO PRIVATE COLLECTION. HAS MANY CONDITIONS—BUT MUST SETTLE PRICE FIRST. WILL ESTABLISH VALUE ON THE 1ST.

  Rone could now see that the Highwayman was earning his name. Whatever he was before, he was a mercenary now. He wondered what the other conditions were.

  EXHIBIT:

  20

  DATE: OCTOBER 1

  SUBJECT:

  HIGHWAYMAN

  TO:

  UNCLE MORRIS

  FROM:

  SWEET ALICE

  VALUE UNHEARD OF. LIBRARIAN REFUSES

  TO DISCUSS MATTER ANY FURTHER. HOW MANY ARE COMING FOR TEA?

  Rone now saw that the librarian paid the bills for Sweet Alice, or at least he had to pay for the agents they took. Since the librarian was only one agency he assumed that any agency that provided personnel to Sweet Alice had to pick up the tab themselves. He knew that the question “How many are coming for tea?” established the price, but he still couldn’t figure out how much that was.

  EXHIBIT:

  21

  DATE: OCTOBER 1

  SUBJECT:

  HIGHWAYMAN

  TO:

  SWEET ALICE

  FROM:

  UNCLE MORRIS

  STEW IS COLD. MY GUEST PREFERS DEMITASSE.

  Rone knew that Uncle Morris had offered to help financially. He could afford a demitasse—half a cup of coffee—but the message before stated tea. Uncle Morris wasn’t offering tea—he was offering only the price of half a cup of coffee. So tea represented one figure, thousands, tens of thousands, or higher, and coffee represented another. Rone realized this wouldn’t work. If tea was a hundred thousand dollars and coffee represented ten thousand, then half of that would be five thousand. Uncle Morris wouldn’t offer only five thousand dollars on a hundred-thousand-dollar agent. No. Rone concluded that tea and coffee represented the same amount.

  EXHIBIT:

  22

  DATE: OCTOBER 1

  SUBJECT:

  HIGHWAYMAN

  TO:

  UNCLE MORRIS

  FROM:

  SWEET ALICE

  CENSORS BACK UP LIBRARIAN. DID YOU BUY TOOTHLESS TONY A BANJO?

  Rone now saw that the instrument Toothless Tony played determined who he talked to. In a previous telegram Sweet Alice had asked, “Does Toothless Tony have a guitar?” In exhibit 22 Sweet Alice asked, “Did you buy Toothless Tony a banjo?” In both cases a stringed instrument was used and in both cases a question was asked. Either the stringed instrument or asking a question was the clue to have Toothless Tony contact Featherless Fred. Rone already knew what was on the next page before he turned to it.

  TOP SECRET TOP SECRET

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  OCTOBER 2

  DEAR

  AND I WERE DELIGHTED TO LEARN OF THE COOPERATIVE ATTITUDE YOU AND YOUR ASSOCIATES HAD TAKEN TOWARD OUR BRITISH FRIENDS. SINCE YOU WERE COMPLETELY FREE IN REACHING THIS DECISION WE UNDERSTAND HOW IMPORTANT THIS MATTER MUST BE TO YOU. THAT IS WHY I AM DROPPING YOU THIS NOTE.

  IT HAS COME TO MY ATTENTION THAT A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING HAS ARISEN AND IT SEEMS OBVIOUS TO ME THAT OUR BRITISH FRIENDS ARE AT FAULT. UNLIKE OURSELVES THEY COMMUNICATE IN THE LANGUAGE OF INTERNATIONAL DIPLOMACY WHICH INTERPRETS THE STATEMENT “COMPLETE COOPERATION” TO MEAN BOTH TECHNICAL AND FINANCIAL. WE IN THIS COUNTRY, ON THE OTHER HAND, OFTEN DIFFERENTIATE BETWEEN THE TWO. I HAVE NOT BROUGHT THE MATTER TO THE ATTENTION OF SINCE IT IS SO NEGLIGIBLE. I KNOW YOU WILL DO WHAT IS BEST FOR THE SECURITY OF THIS COUNTRY. PLEASE KEEP ME POSTED AS TO THE PROGRESS OF THIS MOST URGENT CASE.

  YOUR ADMIRING FRIEND

  EXHIBIT:

  23

  DATE: OCTOBER 3

  SUBJECT:

  HIGHWAYMAN

  TO:

  UNCLE MORRIS

  FROM:

  SWEET ALICE

  LIBRARIAN DELIGHTED TO COME TO TEA.

  AM ON MY WAY TO SEE LAWYER.

  Rone smiled to himself.

  EXHIBIT:

  24

  DATE: OCTOBER 4

  SUBJECT:

  HIGHWAYMAN

  TO:

  UNCLE MORRIS

  FROM:

  SWEET ALICE

  LAWYER SAYS CLIENT WILL NOT EAT AT AUTOMAT OR PUB. INSISTS ON EATING AT HOME. INSISTS ON CHARGING SHOPPING LIST TO US.

  Rone studied the message carefully. The Highwayman wanted independence. He refused to work out of or through the automat or pub. Rone concluded that those must be the American and English agencies. He would do his own shopping—find his own men and facilities—but Sweet Alice and Uncle Morris would have to pay for it.

  EXHIBIT:

  25

  DATE: OCTOBER 4

  SUBJECT:

  HIGHWAYMAN

  TO:

  SWEET ALICE

  FROM:

  UNCLE MORRIS

  RENT THE HOUSE.

  EXHIBIT:

  26

  DATE: OCTOBER 4

  SUBJECT:

  HIGHWAYMAN

  TO:

  UNCLE MORRIS

  FROM:

  SWEET ALICE

  FOR DESSERT LAWYER HAS ORDERED ALL-REPEAT ALL-BABY PICTURES OF HIS CLIENT.

  Rone concluded that the Highwayman had made his final demand. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he thought the baby pictures represented past history—that would mean the Highwayman wanted all classified files on himself. If that was the case there would be no mention of him anywhere in intelligence records. To the world of intelligence, a world of endless amassing and recording of information, this was by far the most trying demand—and the greatest affront. For the first time, Rone felt that the Highwayman had overplayed his hand. He turned the page.

  EXHIBIT:

  27

  DATE: OCTOBER 5

  SUBJECT:

  HIGHWAYMAN

  TO:

  SWEET ALICE

  FROM:

  UNCLE MORRIS

  THE STEW MUST NOT FREEZE. GIVE THEM TO HIM.

  There was only one page left in the file, but Rone didn’t bother to read it now. He put the folder on the floor and began undressing. He turned off the overhead light, lit a cigarette and lay down on top of the blankets.

  “Did you finish?” asked the voice from the other bed.

  “All but the last page. Do you want to hear it?”

  “Why not?”

  “The Highwayman has everything he wants,” Rone began. “He has money, he has complete autonomy—and he has privacy. He bought back his past. There will be no printed word on him in any file of any agency. As far as the world of intelligence is concerned he no longer exists. I wonder how that would feel?”

  “What do you mean by autonomy?”

  “Independence,” Rone explained. “He can work completely on his own without answering to any agency. They’ll give him what he wants, when he wants it, with no questions asked. He is his own master. He’ll form his own organization and operate it in his own way. I could say the Highwayman had done rather well for himself.”

  “And what do you mean by privacy?”

  “All the files on him are to be handed over.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Quite, sure,” Rone replied. “What you gave
me to read is a perfect example. Original cables from both Sweet Alice and Uncle Morris in the same file? Why would that be? Ordinarily each one would keep the other originals and place a copy of his own message in a file for reference. That isn’t the case here. All the originals are together. Not only that, but two top-secret messages from the White House are included. No, I’d say these are part of the original files the Highwayman was asking for—and right now we’re on our way to deliver them.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes,” Rone replied.

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re Sweet Alice.”

  “Why not read the final page? And then catch some sleep.”

  Rone picked up the folder and turned to the last sheet. It was marked with yesterday’s date.

  EXHIBIT:

  28

  DATE: OCTOBER 9

  SUBJECT:

  HIGHWAYMAN

  TO:

  UNCLE MORRIS

  FROM;

  SWEET ALICE

  SCOOTER BROKEN. SENDING IN THE VIRGIN.

  “What’s a virgin?” Rone asked.

  “You are.”

  3

  Sturdevant

  Rone awoke at six-thirty sharp. Sweet Alice was still sleeping. Two square black suitcases had been set in the middle of the floor. He washed and shaved in the tiny compartment sink, took out fresh socks, underwear and a clean shirt. He had almost finished dressing when a waiter, carrying breakfast, arrived at the door. Sweet Alice was stirring. The waiter set up a small table in the middle of the compartment and uncovered a tray of eggs, griddle-cakes and Canadian bacon. Sweet Alice managed to struggle into a pair of rust-colored slacks and a fresh Hawaiian shirt.

  “Better eat fast. You get off soon,” he told Rone.

  “Alone?”

  “Yes,” replied Sweet Alice, searching the table. “They never have cream on these damn trains. You’d think they had something against cows.”

  “You’re quite a writer,” Rone said, lifting a napkin and unveiling a silver cream pitcher.

  “Think so?”

  “Who is Uncle Morris?”

  “My sister,” said Sweet Alice, sipping his coffee.

  “Why do you use cablegrams? Why not the transatlantic telephone?”

  “We move around a lot. I’m never sure where Uncle will be and Uncle’s never sure where to find me. Telegraph offices are always there. A message can wait two or three hours. Can’t waste your day sitting in front of a phone. Anyway, it’s better to have a record of what you said—just in case.”

  “Why am I a virgin?”

  “You just are. Someone who’s uninitiated.”

  “I’ve been in intelligence twelve years.”

  “Where you’re going, you were just born.”

  “Then why take me?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Ask the Highwayman.”

  They finished breakfast in silence. Sweet Alice seldom looked up from his plate. He poured a final cup of coffee, lit a small cigar, looked at his watch and then stared out the window.

  “You don’t seem to like the Highwayman,” Rone said, avoiding discussing his destination.

  “Can’t say. Never met him.”

  “The messages sounded as if you knew him quite well.”

  Sweet Alice turned back to the table and absently stirred his coffee. He studied Rone as a father might study his young son before telling him the facts of life.

  “I knew Sturdevant,” he said. “That was enough. I suppose you’ve heard of Sturdevant?”

  “No,” answered Rone. “Who is he?”

  “Was, is the correct tense. He’s dead now and good riddance.”

  Rone detected a note of ambivalence in Sweet Alice’s voice. “What was his connection to the Highwayman?”

  “Sturdevant trained him—and a lot more of the people you’ll be meeting. If my guess is right you’ll be right in the middle of Sturdevant’s little club—and if that’s the case you really are a virgin. Did you ever hear the phrase ‘cross-reference boys’?”

  “No,” Rone said. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You might in the next few months. It was a term Sturdevant coined to describe the modern intelligence agents—it refers to the computers we use today.” Sweet Alice took a long drag on his cigar and settled back in his chair.

  “When the war in Germany was ending, another one was just beginning, an internal war in this country and England as well. I suppose it could be called the intelligence revolution, the struggle within the intelligence organizations between the old and the new, between modernization and status quo. It’s hard to be sure what was really involved on either side, but in most cases the issue was between the personal and the impersonal—a battle royal between mechanization and individuality. This country walked into World War II about as sophisticated in intelligence matters as a naked five-year-old. We had a handful of agents, almost no facilities and an inveterate dislike of espionage. But when we walked out of the war not only had we learned—we were already changing what was established procedure for fifty years. Out of necessity we had developed mass-production intelligence.”

  “You mean our present approach?” asked Rone.

  “More or less,” said Sweet Alice. “Before World War II, intelligence operations had been predicated on the availability of highly trained agents. Men who had specialized in this type of work most of their lives. The professional spy, if you like. This was true for most of the major powers with one exception, the United States. As I said before, we have always had a national antipathy for this type of operation, so whereas England or Germany or Russia had the career intelligence agent, we had nothing. But the war created its own demands, and we did what we could. We organized OSS and the beginning of CIC, to operate at an international level, and at home the FBI revamped itself to handle internal security. We did a pretty damn good job of it, too. We turned out some of the best operatives in the world—and Sturdevant was one of them.”

  “But you can’t achieve in five years what other countries have been developing for fifty. You can train hundreds or even thousands of agents in a short period of time, but you can’t give them experience. Only a handful got that—and they did well, as I said before. We simply did not have enough seasoned men. So we did what this country has always done—we mechanized.

  “We realized that one veteran agent could get more out of an interrogation or interview than twenty freshly trained men. He could detect the flaw, the contradiction, the clue by instinct and experience. We attempted to do it by electronics. We used fifty agents asking the same questions! Then we took our fifty interviews, put them in an electronic computer, and let the machine cross-reference the material and come up with the inconsistencies.

  “If an enemy agent with a lisp infiltrated one of our war plants, then we investigated every lisping man, woman and child in every sensitive position in every war plant, office or military base, and we filed them on IBM cards. If that agent showed up at an atomic plant where twenty-one other people had a lisp, we could just run the cards through the machine, eliminate twenty-one suspects, and shoot the twenty-second.”

  “It’s not quite that simple,” Rone interjected.

  “Would you rather give the explanations?”

  “Sorry,” Rone said, reminding himself to keep his mouth shut.

  “On one hand,” Sweet Alice continued, “our specialized agents were working on specific cases, and on the other, our inexperienced men were gathering up every bit of information on everything and everybody and feeding them into the computers. The two limbs of the same tree grew and expanded—but the mechanized limb, as usual, grew much faster and began bending the tree in its direction. It was the intelligence, as Sturdevant called it, of cross-reference.”

  Sweet Alice sat back and lit another cigar.

  “But intelligence is based on both the individual agent and mechanical techniques,” Rone said cautiously. “Where does the conflict come in?”

&
nbsp; “It’s a matter of balance,” began Sweet Alice. “The mechanization required tremendous expansion in men, machines and techniques—and by the time we had developed our own individual agents, the whole complex of intelligence work was starting to turn toward cross-reference. I suppose the ultimate dream of a truly technological agent would be to run a security check on everyone in the world.”

  “I still don’t see the conflict,” insisted Rone.

  “It came in the structure of the organizations,” Sweet Alice replied. “The mechanics of running one of these operations became increasingly more involved. There were no longer twenty operatives in the field, but maybe two or three thousand, at all levels of security. Certain protocol had to be established, and certain restrictions were bound to be placed on the agent to coordinate his activities with the rest. In the minds of many old-time agents, bureaucracy was replacing free will.”

  “And Sturdevant couldn’t function under such restrictions?” Rone asked.

  Sweet Alice shook his head emphatically. “No, not at all. Just the opposite. No one functioned better under this new system than Sturdevant. He was the perfect example of the individual, brilliant agent who could utilize every modern technological advance. He thrived on it. But a great many other agents found the changes intolerable, and they in turn began the internal war. Sturdevant got involved later.”