Free Spy Who Read Latin: And Other Stories by Edward D. Hoch

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.