The Kremlin Letter (6 page)

“I'm not sure I understand,” said Rone.

“Well, take my face, for instance. You figured out it's been fixed over, grafted, but you figured it out here, in the kitchen, and just a few minutes ago. You should have known it back at the graveyard.”

“I couldn't tell. You were covered with dust.”

“That should have made it easier, not harder. I was sweating right through the back of my shirt and that silly gown I was wearing, so there should have been sweat on my face too. Sweat collects in pores—like ink does on a fingerprint—so if you couldn't spot any lines through the dust you had only two choices—either the skin was pulled too tight to show them up or my face just wasn't perspiring. Any way you look at it something was wrong.”

“Thanks again,” Rone said halfheartedly. Nonetheless, he was impressed.

“My pleasure. Who knows, if my adding machine breaks down you may be able to give me some hints. Come on, it's time to meet the man.”

Rone followed Ward through the back door and out along the path. They entered the church through the oak doors. Ward secured them from inside with a crossbar and led him down the aisle. The deacon emerged from a side entrance behind the pulpit. His dark trousers and collarless shirt hung limp in the close church humidity. He approached Rone cautiously and almost with disdain. Finally he extended his hand. “We had expected you earlier,” he said.

“It was out of his control,” Ward stated flatly.

“I see.” He stood back and studied Rone. “You are an expert on electrical machines, I'm told.”

“Computers,” Rone clarified.

“He does other things,” Ward interjected.

“You're taller than I thought,” he said, more in confusion than displeasure.

“He'll do,” Ward said firmly.

“I hope you're right,” the Highwayman answered without dropping his gaze from Rone. “Size could be a factor here.”

“He'll do just fine. The Puppet Maker will work it out.”

“I hope so.” He turned to Ward. “Was everything in the suitcases?”

“I'll check them out after dinner. No need rushing.” Rone noticed a patient, almost gentle tone in his voice.

The Highwayman seemed perplexed. He nodded and turned back to Rone. “Ward is absolutely right. There is no need to rush. I seem to have developed the tendency to hurry in my twilight years—as if I want to get on with it. Ward knows better. You listen to him. Each of us can still learn a great amount from Ward. It's been very heartening to see you. Yes, it has been very heartening.” The Highwayman turned and walked back through the door. Ward was already up the aisle and out of the church.

Rone caught up to him as they neared the mall.

“You left the church open,” he reminded him.

“No one will go very far with it.” Ward sat down on a cement bench facing the statue. He took an apple out of his back pocket and began paring it with a penknife. The sun had begun to set. A somewhat cooler, more arid breeze drifted across the grass.

“Well, what do you think of him?” asked Ward.

“I couldn't tell. He didn't say very much.”

“You're disappointed, aren't you? Disappointed and worried. Everything was all rah-rah until you met the hero of the game, eh?”

“I didn't say that.”

“I don't see you gushing with enthusiasm.”

“He wasn't what I had expected.”

“I'll tell you something, Nephew: Stop expecting. It's better that way. It cuts down on the rate of disappointment.”

“You seem more worried about him than I do.”

“There's a big blue ocean between worry and concern—I'm not worried. He's getting old. That in itself doesn't amount to a hill of beans—but he
knows
he's getting old, that's all that's bugging him. He's starting to think about time. He'll get over it.”

“You don't sound too sure.”

Ward looked up at him with a broad grin. “I'm sure, Nephew—I'm
very
sure. There's not much difference between him and a boxer. Ever see them jokers just before the fight? They're trembling like a leaf. Wait till the bell sounds.”

“Nothing seems wrong with
you,”
Rone said without wanting to.

“I fight a different kind of war. He knows what he's doing. He'll get us through okay.”

“You've been with him a long time, haven't you?”

“Long enough.”

“Then you must have known Sturdevant.”

“I knew him.” Ward was slicing the peeled apple into eighths.

“It sounds like you didn't like him.”

“Look, if I give you all the answers at once—Can we call the quiz show off?”

“If that's the way you want it.”

“Sturdevant was a fraud. He was none of the things people said about him. He wasn't a cold-blooded, sadistic killer. He was two things—a great con man and an incurable
de
generate. He had the knack of getting other people to do everything for him. He wasn't a bad strategist, but a one-man crusade he wasn't. He was also a coward. Yes sir, Nephew Charlie, a
real
coward. And he knew it. He stayed way behind the lines—if he was up front he'd've shattered like glass—so he kept out of action and built up his own legends. He peddled more bullshit in World War II than Goebbels. His boys were good—damn good—and he gets a given degree of credit for that. But for the rest, that man in there did most of the work—he was Sturdevant's operations chief all the way through. He was the tactical brain. Sturdevant was nothing.”

“Then why all the reverence?”

“Because in war men need a cause—not a motto like ‘The War to End All Wars' or ‘Vee for Victory'; that's fine back home or in training camps, but when you're on the line you need something more immediate than that—your own kind of personal hero or motto. At one time flags and standards used to be enough. Later bagpipers and buglers led the charge. Sometimes it's a banner, sometimes it's a shout. In this particular case what was needed was a man. The man was Sturdevant.”

“Do you believe he killed himself?”

“Are you asking if I believe he's dead?”

“No. Do you think he committed suicide?”

“That's what he'd like everyone to think. Only he didn't even have backbone enough to do that by himself. He made the man you just met pull the trigger.”

“What about the other stories—about the brutality?”

“I told you he was a DG, a queer, everything else that went along with it. When he wasn't plundering I suppose he was raping. He was more a dog with a hard-on than a man with a mission.”

“It sounds like you had a run-in with him.”

“Not a chance. We each knew where the other lived. He kept his distance. I spent five years looking for an excuse to cut his liver out and he knew it. You seem mighty fascinated by him.”

Rone was aware of this. He also knew he was wandering further from the answers he wanted.

“What was the Pepper Pot after?”

“I'll tell you when the time comes.”

“But we're going in where he left off, aren't we?”

“You read the messages—draw your own conclusions.” Rone decided to press his luck. “Why was I picked?”

“It's like I told you before, you were the back-up man for Uncle Raymond.”

“But why me? Why someone new? Why not one of your own men? Why not someone you've worked with before?”

Ward popped a section of apple into his mouth. He chewed with slow deliberation. He answered before he had completely swallowed. “There aren't that many of us left. We're getting old, you know.”

Rone's fears began to rise. “But why me in particular? You apparently had the pick of anyone you wanted for a given job. I'm interested in why you decided on me. What were the aptitudes you were looking for? What was it I had?”

Ward spit out several seeds. He broke into his familiar grin. “You're afraid we're going to stick you back on computers, aren't you?”

“Are you?”

“Now I ask you, Nephew Charlie, do we look like the kinda guys that would have any use at all for them contraptions? No, you don't have to worry about that. As to the rest, well, I don't exactly know what an aptitude is, but you did have a few abilities we found kinda useful. I don't want to go into all of them now, but among other things we kinda got the impression you could let someone else die in your place without giving a good goddam. Now that ain't easy to come by!”

After dinner, the two black suitcases were brought to the kitchen. Ward picked one up, placed it on the breakfast table, took out a key and opened it. When he swung back the top Rone could see that it was divided into three metal-topped sections. Ward opened the first. It was filled with files. He looked through them rapidly, stopped at one, pulled it out and threw it to Rone.

“You might find this interesting,” he said.

Rone looked down at the manila envelope stamped “top secret”; there was a sticker on it with typed words: “Security Investigations and Clearance—CIC for ONI.” Below it he read, “Subject: Rone, Charles Evans.”

If there was one major taboo in modern intelligence organizations, it was an agent examining his own investigation.

Rone looked up. Ward had already closed the first suitcase and was busy opening the second. It was crammed full with packs of money. Ward threw a couple at Rone and said, “Start counting.”

Rone counted the old twenty-dollar bills. There were ten thousand dollars in each bundle. Within half an hour he had counted an additional one hundred and ninety thousand in tens and twenties. He had no idea how much Ward had counted. He handed Ward the paper with his additions and then helped him put the money back in the suitcase.

“You better get some sleep, Nephew,” Ward said. “You may be getting an early call.”

Rone started for the stairs.

“Hey, don't you want this?” Ward called, holding up the security clearance.

Rone walked over, took it, and went upstairs to his room.

Later, as he lay upon the starched sheets, he began reading it:

TOP SECRET

SECURITY INVESTIGATION FOR TOP SECRET CLEARANCE

FOR

CHARLES EVANS RONE

COMPILED BY THE COUNTERINTELLIGENCE CORPS

FOR

OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE

INDEX OF MATERIAL COVERED

NAME:
RONE
CHARLES
EVANS

AKA: NONE

HEIGHT: 6' 1½"

WEIGHT: 190

EYES: BROWN

HAIR: LIGHT BROWN

MARKS: NONE

DATE OF BIRTH:
9 JANUARY 1929

PLACE OF BIRTH:
RAWLINS, WYOMING

FATHER'S NAME:
CHARLES LAWRENCE RONE

FATHER'S OCCUPATION: DOCTOR—RANCHER

FATHER'S ADDRESS: P.O. BOX 12, RAWLINS, WYOMING

LIVING OR DEAD:  DECEASED 6/6/39

MOTHER'S NAME: (MAIDEN) ELSIE EVANS

MOTHER'S ADDRESS:  NOT APPLICABLE

LIVING OR DEAD:  DECEASED 6/6/39

BROTHERS OR SISTERS: EVAH--DECEASED 6/6/39

EDUCATION:

GRAMMAR SCHOOL:
RAWLINS GRAMMAR SCHOOL, RAWLINS, WYO. GRAD. 1942

HIGH SCHOOL:
RAWLINS HIGH SCHOOL, RAWLINS, WYO. GRAD. 1946

COLLEGE OR UNIVERSITY:  LELAND STANFORD U., PALO ALTO, CALIF. GRAD. 1950

YALE UNIVERSITY LAW SCHOOL, NEW H. GRAD. 1953

MILITARY SERVICE:
NROTC STANFORD UNIVERSITY ENLISTED USN 5 JULY 1953

OCCUPATIONS:
HUNTING GUIDE--JACKSON HOLE, WYOMING 1941–1946 (SUMMERS) AUTOMOBILE MECHANIC--RAWLINS, WYO. 1942–1944 (PT) RIDING INSTRUCTOR--PALO ALTO, CALIF. 1946–1948 (PT) SKI INSTRUCTOR--YOSEMITE N.P. 1948–1950 (PT) LANGUAGE TUTOR—NEW HAVEN, COOT. 1951–1952 (PT)