Doomed Spy

By JR Rogers

1960—As a British spy and Soviet mole Edgar Davies knew, and as everyone else in MI6 must have known, there was only one way to catch a spy and that was to discover him in his act of betrayal. Davies, an ordinary man disenchanted with his life, plans to defect to the Soviet Union and bring with him years worth of British operational secrets. From Leopoldville in the Congo, to the quiet South American capital of Montevideo, Uruguay, Doomed Spy is a psychological spy thriller set in an unconventional distant posting at the height of the Cold War.
At the center of the intrigue are three intelligence officers: Edgar Davies, a seasoned British MI6 officer posted to Montevideo, Anastas Molotov, a young KGB officer who had befriended him last year in Africa, and now wants to defect and, across town operating from his secure attic command post in the Italianate mansion that is the Soviet Embassy, the KGB Rezident, Colonel Oleg Nadiensky.
Davies and Nadiensky are seasoned operatives in the opaque clandestine world of espionage. But to the casual eye, and on the diplomatic cocktail circuit where the two are never seen together, the Britisher is not what he seems. He has close secret ties to the Rezident who recruited him years ago in Belgium. All the while Molotov is carefully crafting his own plan to defect to the British, bringing with him an explosive secret.
With a cast of unforgettable characters, and a compelling plot, Doomed Spy is an extraordinarily evocative human drama charged with friendship, illicit love, and betrayal that powerfully evoke the tension, people, and intrigue of the Cold War.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JR Rogers
• Release date: Mar 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301260522

JR Rogers

J.R. Rogers is a literary historical thriller novelist. He has written eight novels of espionage, intrigue & romance. His latest is To Live Another Day. He also writes short stories a number of which have been published in various soft cover and/or online publications. He lives in southern California.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Leopoldville, Republic of the Congo – summer 1960

Anastas Molotov, a KGB officer in Soviet State Security, was troubled by the heat. Damp and perspiring heavily under his summer suit, squinting behind his Ray-Ban sunglasses, his forehead moist under his Khrushchev-style Panama hat, Molotov moved quickly and uncomfortably down the wide cement sidewalk. Moments before striking out on foot, he had driven around town for a frantic hour in a rented car trying to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He had hidden it finally behind a tall building two blocks away and left it quickly, uncertain whether he had been observed. Now, alongside him stretched a wide downtown boulevard divided in the center by colorful landscaped traffic islands. His left hand was deep in his pocket and in his right he clutched a tattered guidebook to the city published in French. Periodically, he slowed and stopped to flip it open and pretended to find his way. All the while he checked with utmost caution to make sure he was not being followed. Thoroughly trained by the KGB, Molotov knew well enough to suspect when he was being tailed, but he wasn’t so sure about the expertise of the Czechs who were his hosts in town. The Soviets had not yet established their embassy in Leopoldville, the former colonial capital of the Belgian Congo so Molotov, along with a small team, had been dispatched from Brussels as advisors to the fledgling African government. Relations between the representatives of the two Soviet-bloc countries were distrustful, and occasionally downright frigid, with both sides eager to transmit to the Communist Party and Moscow the transgressions of the other. Czech operatives would follow him occasionally, though it was a haphazard schedule and he could never be certain when they would be out on the streets. Molotov made a show of scanning again the avenue lined with nondescript white buildings in the colonialist style, the street crowded with ancient European automobiles. As Molotov slowed and discreetly checked again for a tail while pretending to review his directions, another of the ubiquitous, battered fula-fula buses roared past spewing diesel smoke over the sidewalk. They were open-air flatbed trucks outfitted with metal benches which carried passengers, the riders often standing with their arms and legs protruding from either side as the vehicles careened down the roadway. On his first trip to Africa, Molotov found the Congolese transports highly unusual, even by Soviet standards. Satisfied for the moment he was not being followed, he moved on but now faced the unpleasant task of pushing his way through yet another group of idling and unemployed barefoot men crowding the limba tree-lined sidewalk. They descended on him as he approached, trying to sell him Belgian cigarettes, British toothpaste and green and yellow packs of American chewing gum. As he made his way delicately through the crowd, shaking his head, waving his free hand and repeatedly muttering "non merci," Molotov tried to focus once more, one final time, on what he was about to do. Ahead, was the busy roundabout, the intersection where he knew he would have to leave the avenue and make his way down a side street. The final clandestine meeting he was about to have with a British MI6 intelligence officer would forever change the course of his life.

Seven months ago, shortly after being assigned to Leopoldville for a yearlong special assignment to help the newly independent Congolese government establish a security apparatus, Molotov had made plans to meet in secret with an official from the British consulate. Whomever it proved to be Molotov was certain the diplomat would listen to his story with interest then refer him to one of the undercover MI6 intelligence officers invariably stationed at many of Her Royal Majesty’s embassies and consulates throughout the world. In an amateurishly executed, but carefully engineered scheme Molotov invented the symptoms of a severe intestinal flu. It was his way of arranging to meet a certain British doctor who worked at a local hospital, the Reine Astrid Clinic. He had learned of the man from his Congolese hosts. The general understanding around town was the physician was well connected with the European community and, most importantly, was the doctor to whom employees of the British consulate were routinely referred. Molotov felt certain the man – whose name he did not know – could put him in touch with a British diplomat. Molotov was well aware he and the other five members of his KGB advisory team were under observation by the Czechs. Walking into the British consulate was out of the question, though he had made a point of locating it, and even arranging for a simple doctor’s appointment could be a difficult proposition. Communist Bloc diplomats were often shuttled back to their respective capitals to be seen, rather than run the risk of being compromised by a local physician who might be secretly on the payroll of a Western intelligence service. As Molotov’s invented symptoms worsened, the diplomats at the Czech consulate finally relented and arranged for him to be driven to the clinic.

It was an old, columned white structure on the banks of the Congo River. On the appointed day, while his Czech escort waited out front, and leaned against his small, black Volkswagen listening to music on the radio, Molotov went inside. A pleasant nurse at the reception desk, standing under a lazy overhead fan, took his name and showed him to an examination room. A doctor soon entered and they spoke for a moment about Molotov’s invented symptoms. Unfortunately, the attending physician was Dutch, and not the British doctor Molotov had hoped would be on call. In the end, after receiving a prescription, and while trying not to make a scene, Molotov was finally taken around and introduced to the Britisher while he made his rounds. The doctor, in his long, white coat, looked surprised. He gave Molotov a brief superficial reading then shook his hand indifferently. Murmuring and nervous, and moving to stand closer to him, Molotov lied and identified himself quickly as a Russian diplomat and asked to speak to someone from the British consulate. Now, the doctor looked him over critically, as if seeing him for the first time and then nodded. Molotov quickly gave him his first name and a local telephone number at work; it was a Congolese government line he knew was not being monitored. The physician used his prescription pad to jot down the information and assured him his message would be passed along. The encounter had taken under a minute and Molotov was certain he had been unobserved by his Czech handler who had now drifted into the lobby to escape the heat and was pacing up and down impatiently.

A small milk bar establishment in downtown Leopoldville was known for its Western-style milk shakes, ice cream and espresso coffee and was popular with European diplomats, and often their families on weekends, but was off-limits to the Czechs, and consequently the Soviets. It was the site of Molotov’s final meeting with his MI6 contact, whom he knew only by his cover name Albert. He was middle-aged and of average height with a head full of shocking white hair, narrow shoulders, long fingers and frequently given to wearing a grave expression. He had a lilt to his step and Molotov found he could be impressively agile. Molotov guessed Albert would have been more than midway through his career, though the difference in their levels of experience was hardly a stumbling block.

Their first clandestine meeting had been held at the back of the stark and empty St. Anne’s church in the Kalina district. Molotov was taken aback by their surroundings, but later came to appreciate it was probably one of the more discreet meeting places in Leopoldville. And later, after he had introduced himself, and gone over the peculiars of his situation, he listened to Albert quietly outlining the protocol for their future meetings. As he did, he found he could detect none of the insincere British bluster and stiff upper lip arrogance he and his classmates had been warned about at the training school in Moscow. Instead, Molotov imagined Albert to be more like an American, though he had never met one and only studied them. In fact, Albert reminded the Soviet favorably of a now long dead, but much admired uncle. The MI6 man exuded a warm, friendly manner and when he laughed it was with a soft, pleasant rumble that belied his general air of concern and he treated their first and subsequent meetings as if they were enjoyable fireside chats. In the end, Molotov was pleased to believe Albert had acquired a tremendous expertise in the matter of handling the often nervous Soviet intelligence officer willing, but hesitant, to betray his country to the West.

That afternoon, as Molotov approached his final and pre-selected rendezvous location from the opposite side of the street, ready to continue walking if he sensed, or noticed he was being followed, it came to Molotov again how much he wished he could have shared his impressions of Albert with Marina his wife on whose opinion he could always count and very much valued. As with many wives of younger KGB officers who were not yet trusted completely by Moscow Center, she had been instructed to remain behind in Brussels for the duration of his assignment.

Molotov turned awkwardly, the bright unbearable sun burning his face. He glanced up and down the potholed asphalt street as if uncertain of his location and noticed only a pair of local men laughing and talking as they travelled noisily down the street, side by side toward him, on their gas-powered scooters. Wearing aviator-style sunglasses they seemed intent on their conversation. And along the sidewalks, on both sides of the street, were the usual string of silent Mamas wrapped in long, tight colorful native dresses with heavy baskets balanced on their heads. He guessed they were making for the central open-air market several blocks away. Molotov glanced nervously at his watch and saw it was three o’clock. As always, he was precisely punctual. He held his breath and crossed quickly over to the other side of the street as the scooters roared past him, then ducked without hesitation into the milk bar establishment. Inside, it was air-conditioned and busy and he welcomed the refrigerated air after the stuffy, Congolese government building in which he spent most of his days. He removed his sunglasses then replaced them immediately with a pair of bifocals with unattractive metal frames. Molotov looked around anxiously for Albert. He saw him seated behind a small, round table in a far corner with his back to the wall. The jacket to his tan suit was wide open, recklessly-so, though his regimental tie was neatly in place over the placket of his white shirt and held in place by a narrow gold tie bar. Molotov heaved a sigh of relief; the open jacket was Albert’s signal he had surveyed the room and found it safe to meet.

A woman with a small child in tow was in line ahead of Molotov as he joined the short queue. Behind the counter the staff was busy scooping ice cream from buckets set deep inside a refrigerated case. The espresso machine hissed loudly and the room smelled of fresh coffee. Now, Molotov inched around the woman so he could be seen more properly and moved his guidebook slowly from his right hand into his left and made sure Albert saw him do it. The movement was their pre-arranged signal to advise Albert he believed he had not been followed. In fact, Molotov could never be certain and it was the one aspect of his meetings with the MI6 man that worried him the most.

Albert glanced in Molotov’s direction and watched him shift the book then, sitting up, drew together the folds of his jacket to acknowledge he had witnessed the transfer.

After Molotov had placed his order, been handed his chocolate covered ice cream in a metal cup and matching spoon, he paid then wound his way over toward his contact. Without a word he pulled out a chair and sat. Molotov’s back was to the wide sidewalk window. He removed his hat and placed it awkwardly on the floor beneath his chair then hunched over his dessert so that he might not be recognized from the street.

They were both silent for a long moment.

Molotov spooned his ice cream quickly as if the meal might be his last.

Albert watched the sidewalk outside silently while the KGB man ate. When he saw Molotov put his spoon down, he shifted in his chair.

Rather warm outside, wouldn’t you say?

I could never live in such a climate . . . said Molotov automatically, as if he had anticipated the comment. He spoke softly as he shook his head. He sat up more comfortably, straightening his back, but cringed as he did. No matter how hard he tried, the first few minutes of their monthly meetings, no matter where they were held, were always terrifying. In his mind he could never erase completely the imagined, unforeseen moment when one or more of the security types from the Czech consulate might all of a sudden upstage their meeting, descend upon them and take him away. He ran his tongue over his lips, the sweet vanilla and chocolate mixture a treat after the endless meals of chicken and rice served at the hotel. The tension in him, probably still evident to Albert, would not melt away.

One becomes used to it after a while, you know.

Yes, maybe you are right, said Molotov, trying to relax. He inserted his index finger into his collar to tug and loosen it. I think Marina would like it very much, the swimming pool, the sun, the outdoor life. That’s her dream, you know. She wants to live under the sun. He picked up his spoon to finish his ice cream. As much as he wanted to he couldn’t quite look at Albert squarely. He wanted to appear calm and self-possessed but, under the circumstances, it was not possible. The nervous tension coursed through him with such wattage he hoped he would not have trouble speaking. Molotov understood all too well their simple meeting would be viewed as a prelude to high treason if he were discovered. Apprehended, he would be sent back to Moscow immediately and imprisoned and, after a sham trial, shot then buried in an unmarked grave. He was already beginning to have the nightmares and wanted desperately to ease his fears by speaking with his wife. His fears were nothing new. He and Marina had engineered their secret defection plan in Leningrad years ago when he was still at the university but now, now that he had put their plan in motion, the stress and fright had become simply overwhelming.

I’m quite certain she does. Perhaps on the Mediterranean, though, not in Africa, he scolded gently.

This was their habit, the small talk first about their personal lives, always, but also later about world events, the locals, even the weather, before broaching what was uppermost in both of their minds and it pleased Molotov immensely. Everything about being in the Englishman’s company was pleasant and the man even spoke a smattering of Russian. His accent was terrible; his grasp of the language tenuous, but Molotov forgave him. Sometimes, the young Soviet would coach him on his pronunciation because Albert claimed he wanted to learn the language and speak it with more than a beginner’s hesitation. It was admirable, but Molotov found it odd because he spoke passable English. Molotov often contrasted his pleasant, quiet meetings with Albert to the months of sharp, intimidating security lectures at the KGB school in Moscow where he had labored before he was sent to the West. He did not remember fondly the arrogant, uniformed instructors at whose hands he and his classmates had suffered: the disagreeable, awkward role-playing and the endless no-nonsense rules he had to memorize as he learned how to avoid possible recruitment attempts by British and American intelligence officers. And later, how he had learned to adapt when assigned to his first overseas assignment in Brussels. He understood now the training had been mostly an elaborate theatre designed to instill in the newly minted operatives a fear of the West and, on balance, he had to admit they had mostly succeeded until the day he placed his life on the line by meeting with Albert. Molotov was convinced he had done the right thing, planning to betray his country, contacting the British and placing his and Marina’s future in Albert’s capable hands. He often imagined their new life in London, their children yet to be born and sometimes, prodding Albert politely, listened skeptically to the MI6-man describing in generalities what he and Marina might expect. He would explain how an apartment in London, or perhaps some other British city, would be secured, jobs for the two of them arranged and, eventually, the likelihood they would be issued British passports. It all seemed too good to be true.

How are things over at the Surety National? Any problems?

The Congolese? Molotov gave a nervous laugh. No, they don’t trust us but they need us. They have no idea how to set up an apparatus to spy on foreigners, much less collect political intelligence. He gave another quick laugh as if the answer to the question was painfully obvious. And they do not like the Czechs, either.

Yes, I’ve no doubt of that, said Albert. He looked around again at the small room with its colorful Sabena Belgian World Airline travel posters tacked to the wall, the haphazard arrangement of little round tables and chairs over the scuffed black and white tile floor. He listened to the pleasant, multi-lingual chatter of expatriate housewives while inspecting critically the occasional male customer entering the shop, before turning back to watch Molotov finish his ice cream.

Molotov’s current assignment as a KGB advisor to the fledgling Congolese security department was of marginal interest to MI6. They already knew what was going on. Molotov’s presence in the country was only a short-term, temporary assignment, anyway. The Soviet team was on its own, overseen by the Czechs who had somehow managed to establish an official presence several years before Congolese independence. MI6 suspected the Russians’ assignment had been handed over to only their most experienced, or promising, intelligence officers. Molotov claimed he had no idea why he had been selected, but he certainly fit the latter case. By his own admission, he was well educated, with an advanced Kandidat degree in foreign languages from Leningrad State University and furthermore a graduate of the Higher Intelligence School, the Andropov Red Banner Institute in Moscow. Albert’s reports to London characterized him as displaying a quick intelligence and adding he found him relatively sophisticated for a younger Soviet officer on his first overseas tour. A member of the Communist Party, Molotov was the son of an administrator at Leningrad University. His wife, Marina, a former research assistant at the prestigious State Public Library in Leningrad, was also a member of the Party. Clearly, Molotov, a trilingualist with an impeccably connected background, was being groomed but perhaps also being tested by the KGB in advance of a more important assignment elsewhere. Turned loose in Leopoldville, he was no doubt being monitored closely by his Soviet co-workers and by Moscow from afar. Despite his credentials, Molotov was an inexperienced officer, but also a new generation with a new attitude toward the West, which explained why MI6 was so interested and willing to spend the time to become better acquainted with him. In time, they knew, once he had concluded his Leopoldville assignment, he would return first to Brussels and then to Moscow, or perhaps be transferred to another world capital. Wherever he landed, the Service would contact him again, use him and then eventually allow him to defect and be repatriated to Great Britain. That was the arrangement.

In the meantime, Molotov wanted nothing; not money, not even a secret trust account in England, only the promise of a better life in the West for himself and Marina. In return, he offered his co-operation and his insight to the secrets of the KGB in Moscow such as he knew them and, furthermore, a full-complement of details about the local Rezidentura wherever he might be stationed.

A Soviet walk-in was not an everyday occurrence and London, rightly cautious, had agonized over whether Molotov might be too good to be true. Was he indeed the defector he claimed or perhaps just as likely a double agent? Broadway Buildings, the headquarters of the British service, had no record of the man, nor had the CIA, in large measure because it was Molotov’s first overseas assignment. The counterintelligence staff cautioned as usual against a hasty decision as they scrambled to learn more about him. The MI6 station in Moscow was requested to turn up something, anything, on the mysterious Anastas Molotov. The few public Soviet records there were combed through with the utmost attention to detail. Back issues of newspapers and of the weekly-illustrated magazine Ogoniok were reviewed for any mention of either Molotov or his family. A Soviet agent for the MI6 station in Moscow went up to Leningrad and spoke quietly to a contact at the university’s Twelve Collegia building on Vasilievsky Island, and then tried again at the State Library.

In the end, only a few mentions of Molotov’s name were ever discovered in Leningrad and Moscow, of his wife’s none at all. What little was learned was tantalizing and, after much discussion in Leopoldville and London, with input from the MI6 station in Moscow, the opportunity was thought to be important enough to open a new dossier on the man. Albert was instructed to take casual photographs of Molotov for the identification file and also a few clear mug shots. When they were received in London specialists poured over them. Of medium height with a tight, drawn look beneath his dark hair, Molotov was thin, but not noticeably so, with rather large ears. Someone mentioned his suit looked tailored, unusual for a young Soviet officer it was noted, if it was, and a woman examiner used a loop to point out how Molotov was not wearing a wedding band. She told them it should have been on his right hand on the finger next to his pinky. Someone made a note of it and the missing jewelry question and the matter of his suit were included in the next cable back to Leopoldville. The snapshots were shared with Washington, too, but no match was found there, either. In the end, the Office had given the go-ahead, but with a stipulation; Molotov would have to earn his defection. After the young Soviet had agreed, Albert recruited him, trained him and initiated their monthly clandestine meetings around town. He was given the cover name MARMOT, and the recruitment operation entitled MAGELLAN.

Albert leaned forward slightly. Would you like to tell me your news now?

Ordinarily, their casual back and forth lasted a while longer, but this afternoon it was clear Molotov wanted to come to the point of their meeting. He seemed anxious and troubled.

Yes, I’m sorry. He shook his head. I’m . . .worried . . .

Tell me then what is the problem?

I will be leaving Leopoldville very soon. I have a new assignment, a Department II posting.

I see, said Albert. He was quiet for a moment, squelching his surprise. To Latin America? he asked, betraying no emotion. With Marina?"

No, and this is causing me much pain. Molotov squirmed in his chair. She must stay alone again. This time in Moscow for two years without me, maybe three. He was now visibly upset.

I’m sorry to hear that, Anastas.

This is very bad for me.

I’m certain it is. Tell me, Anastas, where will you be assigned? Do you know yet?

Uruguay.

Montevideo? A pleasant assignment, quiet, or so I’ve heard.

I know nothing about it.

Will your focus there continue to be political intelligence?

That was my training, or so I thought until Leopoldville . . .

Good experience for you here, Anastas, he counseled, and not to be dismissed lightly, despite what you may think. You see, I would imagine your good work has been noted by your superiors and your reward is a new posting with additional responsibilities. Quite exciting, really. Albert watched Molotov nod silently, a pained expression on his face, his brow furrowed. He made the effort to be encouraging; to try and help Molotov view his unexpected news in a different light, though he suspected whatever he said would not be helpful. You’re a bright young man. I suspect you have a future in your organization, otherwise they would not have sent you here in the first place. You know, I too was handed a few unpleasant assignments in my time. But it all works out in the end.

Who will be my contact in Uruguay?

I don’t know, yet.

Yourself?

That’s not likely.

He shook his head and looked worried. I would have preferred it.

Yes, I’m sure, but I have work to finish here, Anastas.

I understand, he said, knowing well enough not to ask for details.

What is the next step? Have they told you?

Next Friday I return to Brussels for instructions and then I send Marina home. Moscow wants me in Uruguay by the end of the month.

Not much time, then, barely three weeks.

Yes, he nodded, concerned. Not much time. A courier came several days ago with coded instructions and a ticket for Sabena.

Something must have come up. They’re not wasting any time. Have you told Marina yet?

No. I can’t speak in private with her until I am back in Belgium. The Czechs listen in to all of our conversations.

I’m quite certain they do. Well, rest assured, Anastas. We’ll look for you and contact you as soon as you’ve settled in Montevideo. Whatever you do, though, don’t attempt to reach out to us.

I understand. I don’t know anything about the Rezidentura there . . . how you should contact me safely, or anything else. Probably your people know much more than I do.

At this point, I’m sure we do. Just leave it up to us.

I must go, now.

He was more troubled than ever.

Yes, you probably should. No reason to delay. We don’t want to push our luck, do we?

Molotov leaned over the side of his chair and retrieved his hat then exchanged his eyeglasses. He took a deep breath. Thank you for your help, Albert. I wish you were coming to Uruguay, but I understand. Still afraid he might be observed, Molotov didn’t shake Albert’s hand.

Yes, I know, I’m very sorry, but don’t worry we’ll keep our word. We’ll try and find a way to bring Marina out, too. Albert sat up and pulled his jacket together. I’ve enjoyed knowing you, Anastas. You’re a brave man but be careful. Udači! he said in Russian. Good luck to you.

Moments later Molotov was gone.

Albert watched as he pushed his way around the crowd at the counter, the guidebook in his hand. He slowed at the door for a moment to put on his hat then disappeared quickly up the street.

CHAPTER 2

Montevideo, Oriental Republic of Uruguay – winter 1960

Though it was still summer in Europe and Africa, it was winter in the Southern Hemisphere city of Montevideo. The BOAC Comet IV aircraft inbound from Sao Paolo flew parallel to the coast then banked steeply. Looking out through the window Edgar Davies, known as Albert to Molotov, watched the silver wing slice through the scattered broken clouds. The cabin righted itself gradually as the pilot lined up with the runway and began their descent. The gear rumbled beneath his feet. Directly ahead lay General Cesareo Berisso Airport on the east side of the city. The final two and half hour leg from Sao Paolo had been uneventful, the flight half-full. The trip over to South America from London however, had been a continuous and maddening up and down affair, with stops in Madrid, Lisbon, Dakar, Recife, Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paolo. Fed more times than he could remember following their takeoff from Heathrow, Edgar had a recurring headache from the re-circulated air he had been breathing for the last 30 hours and the French wines he could not resist served with every meal. On the interminable 12-hour leg between Dakar and Recife he’d been unable to sleep completely. His mind kept coming back to the prospect of reconnecting with Molotov once again. Edgar knew the young KGB officer would be surprised. Despite the state of confusion in Leopoldville after Molotov’s departure, he was surprised he was going to be the one to have to handle the defector and try to bring him in.

When they landed in Montevideo, and after the rolling stairs had been pushed up to the cabin door, the single file of passengers disembarked stiffly. Under a warm late afternoon drizzle and the smell of aviation gas the agent greeted them at the bottom of the stairs and handed them open umbrellas. On the trek to the small single story arrivals building, following the snaking line of passengers crossing the damp apron, Edgar passed in front of a Pan Am piston-engine DC7C that was boarding. As he walked he tilted his umbrella to glance up at the cockpit. He spotted the pilots wearing sunglasses going about their no-nonsense business. He saw them reach above their heads to move toggles and switches as they worked their way through their checklist. Long ago, Edgar had wanted to learn how to fly. He’d set his sights on becoming an airline captain flying international routes. Somehow, his interest had waned, though he still found himself fascinated every time he flew, the polar tug of his once earnest ambition still exerting its force. He supposed his inspiration and interest had been spurred by his uncle Charles, an aeronautic enthusiast and an early flyer with the Royal Naval Air Force. He proudly proclaimed himself to be one of the first to graduate from the Naval Flying School. Edgar could still recall his occasional visits to the vicarage in the small village where they lived. It must have been 1911, or maybe 1912, he thought. Charles, dapper in his new brown uniform with its stiff diagonal shoulder strap, describing for his brother, Norman, a parish priest and Edgar’s father, his training and the future of aviation and the edge it would give their navy. He went on to pilot a Farman MF.11 in the early stages of World War I and died strafing German artillery positions near Ostend. Edgar shook his head remembering it all. Now, approaching the crowded arrivals building Edgar collapsed his umbrella and ducked inside. Montevideo was 20 kilometers away and a driver from the British embassy met him and drove him into town after he had cleared customs and passport control.

Edgar stood out on the narrow, private balcony of his fifth floor room at the Metropole Hotel. He was in the Ciudad Vieja, the old part of the city, down by the port. There was a sea salt smell in the air, a not unpleasant reminder that Montevideo drew its significance and importance from its location astride the confluence of a Southern ocean and a massive river flowing down from the upcountry. The sunset had been lovely as they drove into town and the streets still glistened from the rain that had stopped falling. Warm lights were beginning to come up all over the city and, down in the Ciudad Vieja, everything was tranquil and peaceful. The small hotel was old and quiet on a cobblestone street lined with narrow buildings decorated with filigree ironwork. Their facades were dark with age and added to the gloom below. Peering at them, Edgar could imagine them clean and white, as they must have surely looked over 100 years ago. Plaza Independencia, only two short blocks away, was a long oval ringed by an avenue, and anchored at one end by the tall, elaborate Salvo Palace building that dominated the skyline. The embassy driver had merged with the traffic driving around the Plaza and Edgar had only a few moments to try to inspect it in the rapidly failing light. He thought the place seemed important, perhaps the heart of the city. A large, impressive statue of a man on horseback atop a marble pedestal had been erected in the center, while tall, lush palm trees with narrow trunks reminded him he was now in South America. As he was driven across town, Edgar thought there was a distinct colonial feel to Montevideo, but also a palpable old European influence. The ancient buildings with their sculptured wooden doors, colorful outdoor market stands, the narrow maze of streets, and the way people moved unhurriedly over the sidewalks all reminded him of aspects of cities on the European continent. Now, as he continued to look out over the roofs of downtown, Edgar realized Montevideo was not a large city at all. A few mid-rise structures rose haphazardly along the main, tree lined boulevard named 18 de Julio Avenue. He watched