Storm Over Malham Cove

By David Gallaspy

In 1971, Trace Clarke's unusual aptitude for languages leads him to take a position with the NSA, the alternative being a stint in the U.S. Army in Viet Nam. Trace is sent to Yorkshire, England, to translate Egyptian military communications, which strangely enough come to earth at a listening post in the beautiful Dales country. There Trace falls in love with Dani, troubled daughter of Nathan Britten, unexpected heir to a baronial estate and all its financial problems, including a large stable of expensive but unproductive racehorses. When Trace uncovers important details of an imminent Egyptian invasion of Israel — what would be the start of the 1973 Yom Kippur War — foreign operatives from both Egypt and Israel target Trace and those around him, including Dani. A winter storm raging over a mysterious geological site called Malham Cove mirrors the hostile forces at work and seems to draw the protagonists into its chaotic and death-dealing center.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Gallaspy
• Release date: Jan 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310312380

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To my wife and lifelong companion, Debbie, who has made my life worth living. Thank you for the many times you reviewed the manuscript, got to know my characters, kept me and them honest, and encouraged us all to keep going!

And for all the others who read the manuscript and provided comments and criticism. I took most of the advice, and I took all of it to heart.

Finally, I would like to give a special shout out to Stef Reeves of Cycopath Cycles, Masham, North Yorkshire, for helping to make my Yorkshire bicycle journeys possible and pleasurable. I'll be back soon, my friend!

For the length of the book, I apologize. Except to those who like a long book, as I do, I say you're welcome!

PROLOGUE

This is a love story — certainly not a romance novel, but a love story nonetheless. That's the main point to be made. Like all love stories, it is a drama set in a context. However, the context of this story makes it a little out of the ordinary!

At the time of publication of this novel in 2016, conflict in the Middle East is sending out tentacles that affect people and nations all around the world. Sometimes these tentacles bypass places closer to the centers of conflict to disrupt lives far away and, one would have thought, only remotely tied to the root causes of turmoil in the ancient lands between the Mediterranean Sea and the Indian subcontinent.

This book reflects, fictionally, another of the many times when conflict in the Mideast touched lives far away. It was the early 1970's, a time when a war on the other side of the world in Viet Nam, though waning, was also an agent of change and disruption for many, as it was for me. The draft was still in effect in the United States. The counter culture revolution in the West was maturing, but was still inviting young people to see the world in a different way. The Cold War was still icy cold, and the major powers relied on espionage, and more than ever before on electronic spying, to help them make their political and military moves around the globe.

In the eastern Mediterranean, Israel was feeling invincible after soundly defeating Egypt and its allies in the 1967 War, a war that took only six days to reach a conclusion. But the unrest was still there among Israel's Arab foes, accompanied by a thirst for revenge, and the peace was highly unstable.

Yes, this book deals with these events on the world stage. But for the most part, this novel focuses its spotlight on lives that came together because of, and in spite of, world events. Alexander Tracy Clarke, called Trace, was a young man who had turned his back on a promising academic career to train horses back home in the North Carolina mountains — until the draft lottery and the machinations of a friend from his past pushed him into the world of electronic spying as a linguist for the NSA stationed in Yorkshire, England. Danielle Britten, called Dani, was a daughter of Virginia aristocracy, on track to follow in her mother's footsteps as an Olympic equestrian, when her emotional breakdown and her father's unlikely inheritance of a British title changed the course of her life.

Tracy Clarke and Danielle Britten, against all likelihood, were destined to fall in love. The cause of their love sparked by a mutual love of horses, and aided by Henry Fae, a clever Romany Dalesman, and his warm and gracious gorger or non Romany wife, Sheila,. But the course of their love would have to run through family conflict, accident and illness, the intrigue of spymasters, and ultimately a fusillade of bullets from foreign assassins and their opposing agents. The climax would play out above an appropriately dramatic geological wonder in the middle of a great storm, the Storm Over Malham Cove.

CHAPTER 1 — UNEXPECTED VISITORS

The young man, dressed in threadbare jeans and a tee shirt, drifted in a small circle, one booted foot stepping clumsily over the other as he turned. His thin, brown left arm was held out limply in front of him like a lure, or perhaps the arm of a puppeteer, and his head lolled a bit to one side as if he were intoxicated, or perhaps in a trance. Occasionally, and suddenly, he would crouch into a position like a hunting wolf and lunge forward, then return to his original place and begin his drifting motion in the opposite direction.

The other partner in this odd dance was a glistening chestnut stallion, his taut muscles rolling and rippling as he bounded around in a circle some 30 feet from the man, a circle defined by a ring of metal corral panels about 6 feet high. The stallion was breathing percussively, one large eye riveted on the puppet master at the circle's center.

The loud breaths of the stallion, together with his raised tail and leaping trot, could be read as fear, or at least anxiety. But observed together with the motions of the young man, the pair became more like parts of a clockwork, a mechanism, a machine made of flesh and blood and something intervening — mind.

Outside the clockwork circle, a dignified, elderly man in faded blue overalls and a red flannel shirt was trying to get the younger man's attention with a small wave of his hand, apparently reluctant to interrupt the dance or trance too precipitously. But getting no results, in the end he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled.

Trace! Trace! Son, there's a couple of folks here to see you! Ben Silverman's one of 'em!

Finally taking notice of the voice from outside the circle, the young horse trainer's head snapped around and he almost fell.

On the young man's face there was a momentary flash of pain. In the stallion's eye, the response was a sudden confusion at the lapse of influence. The telepathic tether of concentration between trainer and horse had been broken, snapped.

The huge animal skidded almost to a stop, took a few stuttering steps, and turned both eyes balefully on the master, now walking toward his father.

* * *

Ben! Is it really you? Man, I don't believe it! This is about as weird as it gets, having you turn up here in the North Carolina mountains out of the blue! Trace, registering real surprise, inspected his friend as if to verify that he was not some kind of imposter.

Ben was standing awkwardly in what Trace's mother called the Preacher's Parlor, a room that was typically used for hushed conversations between Trace's father, minister of a small Presbyterian church, and some distraught parishioner — a woman just widowed, parents of a child who was going to prison, or perhaps a couple soon to be married, with a child already on the way.

Ben was wearing a blue suit and a bright red tie. His thin blond hair had been cropped, but he was still the handsome, square jawed Brit that Trace had spent so much time with seemingly a lifetime ago, and literally an ocean away. He seemed to Trace to be perfectly made for his serious new clothes, and equally out of place in Reverend Clarke's humble mountain home.

Trace did a quick check. How long had it actually been? He lost track of time back at the little farm, where the rhythms were diurnal and seasonal. He had left Oxford at the end of last year, 1970. Now it was September of 1971. Had it been less than a year, then? It seemed like a lifetime.

Trace, terrific to see you! Even if you do look like a genuine hillbilly — that's the word, right? The extended arms of the tall and elegant figure that was Ben bent into a hug, then pushed the smaller Trace back like a father inspecting a long lost child.

I can't believe we actually found this charming little ranch of yours! Is it a ranch? Or would one call it a farm? Anyway, we almost gave up. We drove through this place called Buffalo Cove, and I was expecting to see some buffaloes chased by Red Indians! We never did see the cove or any water at all, except for the little stream we were following.

Ben's broad grin faded a bit at the sound of an impatiently cleared throat behind him. He hastily stepped to the side, revealing a shorter man who had been hidden by Ben's big frame.

But I'm being awfully rude. Trace, let me introduce you to my American associate, Mr. O.B. Aubrey. O.B., this, as you will have deduced, is the famous Alexander Tracy Clarke, the reason I have been sent across the pond at great expense to Her Majesty's government and, I have to say, at no little discomfort to yours truly.

Ben turned back to Trace. That U.S. military hop that brought me over was like a goods train!

The man Aubrey struck Trace as an odd amalgam — the image that popped into his mind was a cross between railroad bull and janitor. He was relatively short, stocky but not fat. He had somewhat oily black hair that he combed straight back, no part. He was wearing — rather uncomfortably it seemed — a tweed jacket over a tan shirt with an open collar, nondescript tie loosened. His baggy trousers were khaki with a thick black belt, perhaps responsible for the janitor impression in that attached to the belt was one of those silver retractable key chain devices with a great wad of keys hanging partly in and partly out of his pocket. The final incongruity, adding the railroad boss element, was the gnawed stub of a cigar in the man's downturned mouth.

Trace, schooled in politeness, stepped toward Ben's associate with an open hand.

Mr. Aubrey, I'm glad to meet you. Where are you from?

It was obvious that the man Aubrey was, like Ben, out of his element — a foreigner, as the North Carolina mountain folk, Trace's people and neighbors, would have said — as a Yankee, perhaps more of a foreigner than Trace's British friend.

Ben answered for O.B., while the older man feigned a smile around his stogie and mouthed a gruff How're ya doin', pumping Trace's hand one obligatory pump.

"O.B. is from Washington, Trace. Or just outside Washington, to be precise. He's a deputy director in an important government agency — one that is highly interested in seeking your services, in fact, my brilliant friend. And that's why my associate — well, he's more my boss — and I are here. To offer you a job!"

Trace felt his father hovering in the hallway behind him.

Can I get you boys something to eat or drink? How about some pie and coffee? But please, do sit down and make yourselves comfortable. You must have driven a long way!

With a beneficent if practiced gaze, the tall, silver haired preacher directed his guests into the dusty chairs of the parlor, as he had done many times before in a variety of situations.

Well, since I'm guessing you don't do tea, I could use some morning coffee, Reverend Clarke, Ben said. No pie for me, though. Have to keep my girlish figure. Ben patted his stomach, which was in fact on the paunchy side, reminding Trace of his friend's love of the pub and its pints of bitter. Ben turned to his boss.

O.B., how about some coffee? What about some pie? O.B. squirmed, made a face. Make it two coffees, please, cheers, Ben said. One with all the milk and sugar you can spoon in, the other black.

O.B. had apparently communicated to Ben in some way that he would drink a cup of coffee — black coffee — but would pass on the pie. Or he knew the man's habits. Trace was struck by what a strange pair they made.

Actually, Ben, we're real big tea drinkers here! Reverend Clarke said. It's kind of a specialty of Mrs. Clarke. Let me bring you some tea, and a coffee for Mr. — for you, sir. The reverend bowed slightly to O.B., penance for not remembering the man's name.

Ta, Reverend Clarke, tea would be splendid, Ben said, unconsciously returning the bow.

Son, I guess you'll want some tea, after being in the round pen? Trace nodded and smiled. The pastor left for the kitchen at the back of the small board house.

Now Trace, I know this has to be a total surprise for you, and I hope we're not intruding too much. I tried to ring you, but I suppose the number has been changed, and I couldn't find a listing. All I had to go by was the address from your letters.

I don't know about the telephone, Trace said. Our service isn't all that reliable, I guess. We've had some pretty bad storms recently.

That would explain it, I'm sure, Ben replied, nodding at O.B. Trace thought Ben sounded very uncomfortable, his language oddly formal. No doubt it was the presence of his strange companion.

Well, the fact is that I would love to catch up and maybe even spend some time here with you, and I hope I can do that soon. But O.B. and I have something rather urgent to talk to you about. Exciting, too, I should say. And it is — I know this must sound odd — something rather secret, so we need to find a bit of privacy, if we can. Your father won't be offended, I hope?

Trace reflexively glanced in the direction of the kitchen from which muffled voices and the clatter of plates could be heard.

No, I don't think so, Ben. Although this all seems a bit heavy. Anyway, if you want to we can go sit at the table out in the yard. Dad will find us.

Trace opened the screen door for his guests. O.B. proceeded directly to the car as Ben and Trace walked over to a homemade picnic table under the shade of an antiquarian pear tree.

Get down, Popper! No!

A black and white farm dog had immediately jumped onto the table, apparently used to being at the center of the action. At the word No, he jumped down but looked up at Trace quizzically, expecting an explanation. Trace rubbed his head by way of an answer, then sat down. Ben took a seat across the table, slinging his long legs awkwardly over the bench.

So Ben, I assume from the suit and the haircut and all the cloak and dagger that you took that job at — what is it? — was it something HQ?

Yes, Trace, I did. GSHQ. Failure of the imagination, I guess, but I don't have anything like your brain, and it's something Father believes will turn out well for me — a well trod stepping stone for an Eton boy.

Ben grinned again, and Trace could see the boy who would have been trundled off to the famous old boys' school to pave the way for a future of privilege and power. But the boyish face showed some worry lines now.

Actually, the last thing I could have imagined I would be doing is coming to see you in the States on Her Majesty's business. I've really just been on the job less than a year — still technically in training, actually. But I'm working in the Mideast section, and something has come up that is right up your alley. And it's a job that would bring you back to England, ultimately. Wouldn't that be grand?

The thought of England turned on a flood of images in Trace's mind — a mind that was wired to generate images, connect them into patterns, analyze and sift the patterns for meaning. Or miswired, as Trace often thought — even though the wiring was the source of Trace's special aptitudes with music and languages, as well as horses. The images now were of the ancient visages of Oxford and its university, which Trace had first seen as a Rhodes Scholar — one of the youngest ever at 16.

Before Trace could say anything — a characteristic latency was a symptom of his mental wiring — O.B. had made his way to the table with a briefcase, and Trace's father was walking up with a tray containing coffee and large glasses of iced tea. Predictably, there were three slices of pie on the company china, which Reverend Clarke proceeded to deploy like a conscientious waiter.

After standing beside the table a moment — presumably to see if he would be invited to join the conversation — the pastor cum waiter smiled, made a little bow, and walked back to the house.

Ah, very nice, thank you. And O.B. has some papers, Trace, that he will want you to look at. Ben was searching for something lost among the refreshments.

Trace, did your father forget the tea? This is coffee for O.B., I take it. Ben moved a cup and saucer over in front of his associate, who was placing some white papers on the weathered picnic table.

"Oh, Ben. I thought you knew that 'tea' in North Carolina means iced tea. Sweet iced tea. This is yours. If you want tea like at home, you have to ask for hot tea."

Odd, I didn't know that. Ben's brow wrinkled again. Oh well, cheers! He lifted his glass of amber liquid and took a sip, wincing at the cloying sweetness. He set the glass down well away from him.

At any rate, as I was saying, O.B. has some papers. O.B. slid the documents in front of Trace.

Right, thanks. These are just formalities so that we can talk in a bit more detail. O.B.?

Now O.B. finally put some gruff words together, managing not to lose the cigar in the process.

There are a couple of things here, Mr. Clarke. As he talked, O.B. touched the papers and contents he was describing with his blunt fingers. This first one is a document that basically says that I'm a representative of the U.S. Government and that I have the authority to sign the next document with you. Notice that this is a federal seal, and this signature here is Admiral Gaylor's. He's head of the National Surveillance Administration at Fort Gordon in Maryland. And this here is my official ID, which says that I am me.

Fingers tapping his chest, O.B. showed a sickly smile as if he were posing for an ID picture, although Trace noticed that the little image of O.B. on the ID card was deadly serious.

Trace scanned the document, consisting of a short paragraph stating essentially that one Orvil B. Aubrey, Deputy Director of Operations for the National Surveillance Administration, had the authority to enter into certain kinds of agreements for special purposes, of limited term, and so on. The document was on high quality stationery with National Surveillance Administration letterhead, and included an embossed seal and an elaborate signature in dark blue ink at the bottom.

Trace appeared to glaze over a bit as he read the legalese, and after a few moments of silence O.B. glanced quickly at Ben, who gave him a reassuring raise of the eyebrows — you can continue, it said. O.B. cleared his throat and continued speaking to Trace, pushing another piece of paper forward.

And this document here is just a basic non disclosure agreement for us to sign. It says — see right here — that we are going to give you some confidential information about a job we would like to recruit you for, and you agree not to divulge that we are making you a conditional offer, and who discussed the offer, and these other things here. This is for two years, that's the term. Can you sign this for me, son?

Ben jumped in eagerly, as if he expected Trace to object.

Trace, like I said, these are just pro forma. If you can sign this NDA — non disclosure agreement — we can give you a summary of what's going on. Not a lot of details until you get the security clearances and background checks, of course. If you go forward, that is. But we need to tell you enough so that you understand what the opportunity is, and why we need your help. Plus I think you will find this right in your line. And financially, I think this will be more attractive than training horses, if that's your job now — if that's what you're planning to do…

With your life, Trace finished Ben's sentence in his head. Ben was looking around at the poor little upland farm that was spread out before them, carved out of mountain forest, as if it were an outpost on the moon.

Trace followed Ben's gaze, trying to see the little place through his eyes. He saw the half dozen horses grazing contentedly in the pasture leading down to the river, and the bright silver river itself coiled around the base of French Mountain. Was there a better place? A better way to spend a life?

Suddenly a breeze puffed up from the hollow below, ruffling the papers that were on the table. Trace instinctively slapped at them to keep them from blowing away. His hand landed on top of Ben's, which was on top of O.B.'s. The little man has exceptional reflexes, Trace thought. There were suddenly relaxed smiles all around, which immediately eased the tension that had been building with the talk of secrets and commitments.

But the moment was short lived. Trace looked back down at the papers with the signature lines above his name — his full name, Alexander Tracy Clarke, preprinted along with the address of his parents' farm. And his social security number had been filled in, as well. Suddenly the act of signing the documents seemed tantamount to signing some sort of confession, setting in motion an arrest, a trial, imprisonment.

His anxiety rising, Trace gripped the picnic table to keep himself from leaving. He breathed deeply, talking himself down. He was safe here at the farm, under the old pear tree. Nothing could hurt him here. He had a choice. He had already made that choice when he left Oxford and the opportunities that presented themselves and returned to the mountains.

O.B. was staring at Ben again, clearly exasperated at Trace's odd behavior. Ben looked distraught, worried that his plan was falling apart. Awkwardly extracting himself from the table, he went to Trace's side and put a hand on his shoulder as if to prevent him from flying off. Trace smiled up at Ben, gestured for him to sit down beside him. He took a deep breath, calming himself. It had been a long time since he had experienced one of his anxiety attacks. But he was in control now.

Look, I appreciate that you have come a long way to offer me a job, which I'm sure is a good one. But when I finished the Rhodes at Oxford, I had several good offers, including some doctoral fellowships and a couple of quant positions at big banks. I had just turned 18. It hit me that I was just a whiz kid who had always done what my teachers asked me to. Here I was with fancy credentials and a bunch of research publications to my name and I didn't want anything to do with any of it or the fancy degrees or big jobs. I just wanted to come home to the farm and get back to my horses.

I understand, Trace, I really do, Ben said, his hand still on his friend's shoulder. It didn't seem to Trace that he really did understand. He was blindly following a preordained path to position and responsibility.

But Trace, we have a little dilemma, here. What we need you for, the job we're talking about, is a really important one. And it's also very personal for me. Some things are happening in the Middle East that could have a big impact on me and people I care about. Ben glanced over at O.B., who had a cautionary scowl on his face.

I want to explain more about it, and how you can help. But I'm told I can't unless you sign the confidentiality agreement. Look, it's only for two years, and hearing what we have to say isn't going to turn you into a frog or anything — or a spy! Once you hear what the job is, I think you'll really like it. But you can decide. Okay? You just need to hear the whole story.

But what's the point, Ben? Of course, as your friend I care about anything that might impact you personally, and I would like to help, but I just don't think I'm cut out for your kind of work and I don't want to leave the farm any time soon. So... Trace raised his hands to signify his helplessness.

O.B. cleared his throat again, this time more impatiently. The stogie was a sodden mess.

Look, son, he began, throwing his cigar toward a forsythia bush. You may like to stay here, and I can see that. You like horses, okay? I like rum and cokes, bikinis and Waikiki. But I'm stuck in that shithole they call Garland, Maryland! Me, I signed up to do a job, a damned important job. In your case, you no doubt know that there's a war going on, right? And there's a draft lottery?

O.B. let his statement sink in. Trace held the man's eyes for a moment, then looked down. Yes, he knew there was a war, and he knew there was a draft lottery. But he had been forcing himself to ignore it ever since he came home from England.

By not continuing with his doctorate this fall, he had no doubt lost his deferment. They would probably be contacting him any time now. But there were protests over the war, and maybe it would all end. It just didn't seem possible that a raffle, a drawing of lots, could send a kid from backwoods North Carolina into a jungle war thousands of miles away.

O.B. had judged his effect, and softened a little. He attempted a smile, achieved a sneer.

"Mr. Clarke, let me give you some good news here. Of course, we at NSA looked into you a little bit before I came down here. Just to make sure there wasn't some fatal flaw, you understand — it's what we do. I've gotta say that you present some security problems with your travels abroad and living overseas and your international friends, but it looks to me like you're gonna be clean, and GSHQ carries a lot of weight here.

But one thing I noted, thinking from your viewpoint, is that you have to worry about the draft, son. Your number is under 25, right? Oh one seven, to be precise — it's right here. O.B. tapped another folder that he had pulled out of his briefcase, this one orange. Two hollow raps that seemed preternaturally loud. He stared at Trace again, perhaps challenging him to dispute the facts he had brought forward.

In fact, Trace had not known his draft lottery number. It was another thing he had forced himself to ignore. His father had told him one day in July that they had drawn numbers for his birth year, and did he want to know what his number was? The reverend still held out hope that Trace would go back to school, even divinity school. Duke would snap him up. But Trace had said empathically that he didn't want to know.

And now...he knew. Assuming O.B. was telling the truth. But of course he was. It was NSA. From what he had heard and read about the mysterious electronic espionage agency, they knew everything. O.B. continued his offensive.

You're done with school, you say. That means unless you find some other kind of deferment somewhere you will certainly be called up — and I'm talking within a matter of months, or maybe weeks. I'm looking around and it doesn't look to me like an occupational deferment is in the cards, right? I mean, you could run off to Canada, I guess.

Another pause for effect. On the few occasions he had allowed himself to consider the draft, Trace had actually thought about Canada, about declaring himself a conscientious objector. These seemed like real possibilities in the moment, now that he knew the number. But he would have to leave the farm, or he would have to take a moral position and see it through under the scrutiny and criticism of some authority.

The good news, O.B. continued, softening again, is that this position we're talking about satisfies your service obligation. I'm thinking that a little village in England would be a whole lot more comfortable for someone like yourself than some hellhole in the Viet Nam jungle. Doesn't that sound about right?

This was an ugly turn. Trace felt the anxiety, the paranoia building again. These people knew everything about him. And they were using the threat of Viet Nam to get him to do what they wanted.

Heck, Trace thought, they could have made sure he got a low draft number. And maybe if he turned them down, they could make sure he ended up right in the middle of the worst of the war. This was the super secret all powerful NSA!

Without thinking about it, Trace got up and started to walk off. Ben rose, too, while O.B. just chewed his cigar and began to fiddle with his keys, apparently not too concerned with Trace's reaction.

Ben caught up with Trace, held him back, turned him around. He glanced back at O.B., conspicuously preoccupied with his papers, then began to talk to Trace in a low but urgent voice.

Trace, Trace! You have to trust me! We really need your help! I mean me and my family, not the damn government. And a lot of other people, too. People in Israel, to be specific. People we met over there. Ben looked back at O.B. again, guiltily. This is related to that. Please sign the agreement, and just listen. I promise that nothing bad will happen if you do. Okay? This is really important.

Trace met Ben's eyes, and plumbed them for deception — he was certainly capable of it when he wanted something. But if this was an act, it was a good one. This was a different Ben talking. There really was fear in his blue eyes, which almost never showed even a hint of worry. Trace felt himself relenting, his panic abating as he studied Ben's face, remembering it and all the times they had spent together.

"Hell, Ben! Okay, if it means that much to you, I'll sign the stupid documents, for you. I'll listen. Because you're a bloody toff and a bastard who won't give up. And because you're still my friend, whatever you do. Including bringing an asshole like that into my home." Trace motioned toward the offending person with his head.

Feeling like a condemned prisoner, Trace returned to the table, took the pen that O.B. had laid out for him — the audacity! — and scrawled his signature on the designated lines of the two documents. O.B. immediately added his signatures, filling in the date. He spread out copies of the documents, and the ceremony was repeated.

When it was done, O.B. gave Trace his copies, which Trace folded in half and placed under his thigh to keep them from blowing away. O.B. put his copies carefully in a folder and placed the folder in his open briefcase. He then shut the lid with finality, nodded to Ben.

This act has been rehearsed, Trace thought. Maybe even Ben's desperate appeal. What have I done?

Ben was a special friend, someone who had helped him come out of his shell in England, showed him another world in Israel, helped him grow up. Someone who had only let him down in little things.

But had their trust ever really been tested? With anything really big?

CHAPTER 2 — JOB OFFER

Reverend Clarke had come back to the picnic table to offer refills. Trace explained about the tea misunderstanding, and his father apologized, promised to return with a pot of hot tea. Ben asked to use the bathroom and Trace, uncomfortable staying there with the asshole, said he needed to fork some hay into one of the paddocks for a weanling colt.

In awhile everyone was back seated under the shade of the pear. As Ben sat down, O.B. patted the table in front of him and nodded. At the signal, Ben started up abruptly, like a mechanical doll.

Excellent, Trace! He looked genuinely excited, his schoolboy identity beaming through again, reminding Trace of Oxford days. Trace realized that Ben might be looking forward to having a friend in his new situation, a kind of partner in whatever crimes he was committing.

So! Time to spill some secrets! Trace could almost hear O.B. wince. I think you'll find it all very interesting, Trace!

Ben seemed to be pumping himself up. He paused, as if remembering a prepared speech, then waded in. Maybe he didn't expect to get this far, Trace thought. Ben knew Trace pretty well, after all their travails together in college and their travels around England and abroad.

Right! So as we mentioned, I am with GSHQ based in Cheltenham. GSHQ is signals intelligence, quite like a small version of your NSA — a very small version. As allies we cooperate on many fronts related to remote intelligence gathering and analysis. We do a lot of work on the Soviets — that's mostly electronics intelligence, which is called ELINT for short. By the way, you have to learn a lot of jargon in this business! ELINT involves missiles, submarines, aircraft movements, all that sort of thing.

Having perhaps strayed, Ben searched for his script again.

But of course, both countries are interested in anything that the Soviets do in the way of projecting power into the rest of the world. Right now, that includes the Middle East, where the Russkies are very active in support of the Arabs against Israel. Now your country, in particular, is very supportive of Israel, I know, and I daresay you do much more in aid of them than we do in the intelligence game, right O.B.?

O.B. made a slight adjustment to his scowl, which Trace had begun to think was his default response to most things. Ben hesitated again, then charged manfully on.

Not that the UK aren't supportive of Israel, and indeed we do a good bit of intelligence work to help them. But I would say that we balance our foreign policy more between Israel and the Arabs. Now O.B. shifted on his bench. Another signal in his lexicon.

But that's neither here nor there, Ben added quickly. Trace recalled that Ben was always one to get lost in a story. He thought of it as a very British trait — the way that each thought led to another and every point had to be qualified. Trace generously broke the silence.

Got you so far.

O.B. emitted a low, sarcastic grunt. No doubt he thought Ben was saying too much, or hadn't said what he was supposed to say. Trace was actually surprised that in the short time since leaving Oxford, Ben had become such a creditable imitation of a technocrat — or gentleman spy, or whatever he was. It truly is in his blood, Trace thought as Ben resumed his lecture.

"Right you are! So back to the Soviets... Some years ago we brought your military intelligence service into some of our GSHQ listening posts primarily in the north of England. These are in remote places so they attract less attention, and also from a latitude and interference standpoint these locations are perfect for Soviet intercepts. Over time the U.S. military has yielded to your NSA with respect to intel operations.

Technically, then, we have GSHQ sites that are run logistically by your military but operationally by NSA — with some GSHQ liaison, of course. One of these sites is in Yorkshire, and is called — well, let's save that for later on!

Yet another glance at O.B., Trace noted. If Ben was under instructions to minimize the details, he clearly wasn't doing a very good job.

Suffice it to say that we have a joint center in Yorkshire where NSA is focused on Soviet signals intelligence. Most of the sources are now satellites. This is whirry sort of static y stuff that is primarily processed by machine.

Ben illustrated the nature of the stuff with some hand gestures, which didn't seem to Trace to illustrate anything in particular other than Ben's ignorance of physics.

But the station also has a small intelligence unit that focuses on voice communications, things that can travel over long distances such as HF — uh, that's high frequency communications — short wave, that sort of thing. They have operators that scan all these radio frequencies and record things that seem interesting to them. Could be international telephone communications, various marine communications, even some military communications. Boring to tears, I know, but bear with me, Trace. We're getting to the part we —

You monitor phone calls? Trace broke in, paranoia on alert. Ben looked sheepish, while O.B. gave the tiniest shake of his head from side to side. Even Trace understood this gesture. Ben shouldn't say more about the phone calls. He ploughed on, ignoring Trace's question.

Now oddly enough, some of the radio communications are even in the very high frequency range — that's called VHF, as you no doubt remember from physics. I recall you were very good at physics, unlike some of us... This is significant because VHF comms are supposed to only be line of sight — they aren't supposed to bend over the horizon. So military units on the ground often use VHF for tactical communications — you know, to communicate between command posts and among armored vehicles like tanks and artillery. The operators have the ability to encrypt these communications, but sometimes they don't because they don't think anyone is listening, or maybe they don't know how to work the equipment. Careless, really, but damn lucky for us.

O.B. appeared to be out of patience with Ben's rambling and perhaps his forced good cheer. He coughed loudly and bent forward to claim Trace's attention and the floor.

What Ben is saying — excuse me, Ben — is that we have some military intercepts that are plain voice, and these are obviously Arab military communications that could be very important the way things are over there right now. The sound quality is not good for the most part, and they tell me these camel jockeys are mostly uneducated kids with some ridiculously thick accents — dialects, as you linguist boys would say. Lucky for us their comms protocol is terrible.

Ben, a bit cowed at losing the floor, nodded in meek affirmation as O.B. continued — after spitting a thread of tobacco on the ground, causing Popper to jump to his feet again.

Yeah, we have a bunch of Arabic linguists at NSA. But most of them just learned that gobbledygook in school and they can't make heads or tails of all this traffic. Worst thing is that our head of station in Yorkshire sent us this one tape that he thought might be interesting, and the analysts at Fort Gordon and downtown almost had a cow at how valuable the intel was — stuff we can't get from any other channel. We asked them how much more they had, and they told us they had a whole storeroom full, thousands of hours I guess, with more coming in every day.

O.B. slapped the table in finality. Okay, that's the scoop. In a lot more detail than I intended. The comment was aimed at Ben, who looked appropriately chastised.

Bottom line is that we need somebody who knows the lingo and the dialects and has the ear to decipher all this crap, plus someone who can work in a hurry, and ideally someone who has experience working with the Brits. That's how your name came up. Apparently you have a reputation, at least with our British friends. They seem to want you in particular, and they want you pretty bad. And the limeys basically own the station, so…

O.B. stopped talking, spit once more, and then looked to Trace for a response. It wasn't forthcoming. Trace was staring at Ben — another one of his trancelike pauses. O.B. again shot Ben a questioning look as if to ask, Is this guy all there? But cued by the movement, Trace turned back to O.B.

Okay, I think I understand. But can you explain something? How can these line-of-sight communications get all the way to the north of England? I mean, that's more than just over the horizon. That's thousands of miles away from Egypt, right?

Ben jumped in, like a kid who wants to impress the teacher with the answer.

I can answer that, Trace! It's a well known phenomenon — although I don't fully understand it myself. They call it skywave propagation, or E skip, some people say. Radio waves — even relatively high frequency ones — bounce off of the ionosphere and come back to earth hundreds or even thousands of miles away. Ben was again making strange gestures with his long fingered hands to illustrate what was happening with the radio waves.

"At the Yorkshire location, we benefit particularly from the lower levels of the ionosphere, especially the Heaviside layer or the 'E' layer. It's about 100 kilometers up — what's that, about 60 miles? It is a long way from Egypt to Yorkshire, of course, so you're probably talking about a double hop. For whatever reason, this little station in Yorkshire seems to be in the right spot to get all sorts of signals from the Middle East. Not the only spot, mind you, but a very productive one."

I'll take your word for it, Trace said, although it sounds very strange to be intercepting Arab military radio in the north of England.

Trace's brain began to estimate how far it was from the Middle East to Yorkshire. Visualizing a map, he recalled that it was 3500 kilometers from London to Cairo — he had flown to Cairo to do research for his Arabic studies at Oxford in the summer of 1969. And then it was still quite a distance up to the North — he had taken the train from London to Leeds once to visit the university there — that was another 317 kilometers. Total of about 3800 kilometers at the earth's surface. About 2350 miles. But how far would it be with hops up to the ionosphere and back down…

Ben broke this latest lapse in the conversation before O.B. could look at him again, talking a little too loudly to shake Trace out of his reverie.

Not just Arabic, by the way, we get signals in Hebrew, also — presumably also from military units, although I don't think — well, I assume that the Yanks aren't monitoring those since Israel is an ally. Anyway, the Israeli tank drivers have a lot more comms discipline, so they are mostly encrypted anyway. In any case, it could be useful sometimes to hear both sides. You're a double threat, Trace — knowing Hebrew and Arabic both!

Just then there was the sound of a horse calling urgently. Trace turned and looked over his shoulder at the round pen 50 yards away, where the chestnut stallion was pacing and fretting, his eyes on his master.

Trace had gotten drawn in by the technical aspects of what NSA was doing. But now he suddenly felt tired and bored with Ben's seemingly endless store of esoteric information — and a little chilled by what it all implied about the world and the powers that controlled it. He needed to get back to his horses. Swinging one leg over the bench, Trace imitated O.B. with a slap of the table.

Okay, so I've listened to your story. You have this source of military intelligence and you want someone, a really good linguist to do translations of all of these communications, right?

That pretty much sums it up, O.B. said.

Yes, it does, Ben joined in, but I mean it has to be someone who is really good at the dialects and who has a first hand knowledge of the region. We would like to use a native speaker, but there are security problems with that. This is right up your alley, Trace!

Trace swung his other leg out from under the table and stood up, hearing the stallion call to him in response to his movements.

You know, I'm sorry you had to come all this way to tell me about the job, Mr. Aubrey. I'm kind of surprised you've singled me out with all the translators out there. I expect there are many people who could do what you need, not just me. There were some good guys at Oxford in the Mideast program, and they're already over there in England. And there's a good Arabic program at the university in Leeds, which is up in Yorkshire. Ben could give you some names, I know.

Ben stood up, looked forlornly down at O.B., who remained seated, impassive, fiddling with a fresh cigar this time.

And of course it's great to see you, Ben! I'd love for you to stay, or at least come back when you can?

Trace reached his right hand out to Ben, the other arm poised for a goodbye hug. O.B. had cut the tip off of his cigar, and in anticipation of another missile Popper ran behind Trace's legs. Satisfied with his work, O.B. stuck the fresh cigar in his mouth and pushed himself up from the bench. He opened the lid of his briefcase with a couple of loud snaps.

Okay, Mr. Clarke, we hear you. But remember the lottery, son. You'll be getting your letter any day now, and then you won't have a choice.

O.B. reached into the briefcase and took out a yellow sheet, which he held out to Trace.

But there's one more piece of paper here. It has the terms of our offer — the salary, pretty damn good. Moving expenses, benefits, all that stuff. Plus the deferment. Keeps you out of Viet Nam, like I said.

Trace took the sheet, held it limply by his side like a piece of flypaper, complete with dead flies. But his disgust was focused on O.B. He hated him for being insensitive and trying to blackmail him with the threat of the brutal war. It was evidently a convenient little war for some people.

The offer's good for 30 days, so… When you get that envelope from your draft board, you take another look and let us know. Frankly, I don't care a whole hell of a lot. Like you said, there are other lingo boys out there. But my orders were to try, so this is me tryin'. Including putting up with your limey friend there for umpteen thousand miles.

Once again the man spit. Come on Silverman, we're done. Let's hit the road!

Trace's father had appeared once again, sensing that the meeting was breaking up. Or perhaps he had been watching. But Ben was not ready to leave.

O.B., can I have a couple of minutes with Trace? Just a proper goodbye, and all?

Ben sounded plaintive and disappointed. O.B. had his briefcase in hand and was already headed for the car with a lazy, rocking gait. I really don't give a damn, it said.

Sure thing, you girls chat for a bit, O.B. called over his shoulder. I'm gonna take a nap. A ten minute nap. Capice?

Ben turned to Trace, reached out and grasped his upper arm.

Can we take another walk? he asked.

A ten minute walk? Trace replied, squinting sarcastically at his friend.

Oh, O.B. will wait. He's mostly bark. I have to admit he bites sometimes, but not as often as you might think.

Trace started walking slowly toward the river pasture, Ben still holding his arm.

He's an effing son of a bitch! Trace spit in imitation, mockery of O.B. I'd like to see his ass sent to Viet Nam! Come on, Popper!

Actually, he was there. Years back at the beginning. Apparently some kind of gung ho hero. But I'm not disagreeing with you. I pretty much hate him, myself.

And you want me to come work for him? Some friend! Trace broke Ben's grasp, hit him in the shoulder.

Ouch! Ben cried out, rubbing his arm. He didn't hit back as he would have done at Oxford.

Trace, I'm really sorry. This was not intended to be a hard sell. The fact is, like I said before you signed the agreement, that I have a very personal interest in having you take this job. I can tell you more, now, with the agreement and all. Will you hear me out?

Of course. I said I would listen. I get it that your parents are still playing pioneer in Israel, at least part time, and I assume you're concerned about their safety if another war were to break out. But that's not likely is it, really? Not after '67? Unless there's something you know that I don't. Something top secret?

Ben ignored the continued sarcasm.

You remember when we were in Israel, everything seemed bright and shining and nobody seemed to be worried about war anymore? Well, now my father says that there is something going on with the Arabs, and he's worried that this is the calm before the storm. Ben's voice had begun to tremble a little.

In the second summer of his Rhodes, Trace had gone to Israel to complete his thesis research, which dealt with how the existence side by side of Arabic and a modern, reinvented Hebrew within the State of Israel impacted the evolution of both languages.

Ben's parents, turning Zionist in their retirement years, had bought a place in a kibbutz in the north of Israel and spent their summers there, toiling together with the bright young Jews who had come from all over the world to help build the new Israel. Ben had escorted Trace to Israel for his research, and they had spent a memorable summer working and playing at the kibbutz and traveling around the small country. It was a special time for Trace, and Ben appeared to be willing to use that to his advantage.

But was that fair? Something was obviously eating at his normally unflappable friend. Trace stopped, met Ben's eyes. He plumbed them for deception — Ben was certainly capable of it. But if this was an act, it was a good one. This was a different Ben talking. He had dropped the persona of sir facts and figures and was clearly speaking from the heart. Trace smiled wanly, letting Ben know that he was indeed still listening, although without much enthusiasm.

Anyway, according to the Middle East gurus I work with at GSHQ, this new intel we talked about, from the station in Yorkshire — what little we have seen of it — is pretty significant. It seems to confirm what my father is saying. To be specific, the Egyptians have built up their armies and are doing some heavy training and maneuvers in the deserts of Upper Egypt. War games.

Is that the top secret part? Egypt's army is on maneuvers? Trace asked.

Well, yes, smartass! But I mean there are a lot more details. And just a tiny fragment of the intercept from Yorkshire has even been looked at. And unless there is some sort of official effort to work this stuff, it won't be. Nobody on the American side really seems to care that much. Nixon and Kissinger are all about the Soviets.

Do the Israelis care? Trace asked. It's their neck on the block.

I don't think they even have the intel. But from what my father says, the Israeli government is sure acting like there's no imminent threat. With the exception of General ben Gamliel, you remember him? He's been talking to my father — they're old friends and The General — that's what everyone calls him — visits the kibbutz a lot. He agrees that something is up with the Egyptians. They're definitely planning an attack, he says.

The mention of the Israeli general sent a shiver up Trace's spine. He replayed their evening with the old warrior at the apartment of some friends of Ben's parents in Tel Aviv. The General had seemed to know all about Trace, including his travels in Egypt. He had started by telling Trace that he shouldn't have been playing tourist in a country that had so much hatred of Israel. Before the evening was over, he was grilling Trace about what he had done and seen in his travels. It was a chilling experience.

Ben, I wish you wouldn't bring up that general. I was afraid I was going to end up in an Israeli prison that night! I despise that guy! Maybe as much as your O.B. Aubrey!

Ben laughed. He's been in Aman, Israeli military intelligence, for years, so I guess he can't stop interrogating people! I think he's retired now, or will be soon. But he still has contacts. And my father believes he knows what he's talking about.

Trace again pondered the new Ben, the serious Ben, with all his talk of intelligence gathering and impending war.

Man, I didn't know you were that serious about politics. War and peace and all that. Pretty much anything, really, except beer, girls and maybe number theory.

The joke was half hearted, at best, and Ben didn't even smile. Instead, he shot a worried look back to the car where O.B. was presumably still napping.

"But there's another reason this whole thing is personal, Trace. And before you ask, this really is top secret. You remember Rachel?"

Trace nodded. Rachel was an Israeli born girl from the kibbutz Ben's parents had joined. She was beautiful and eligible, and Ben had pursued her relentlessly while they were at the kibbutz — along with all the other guys.

Well, things have progressed some on that front — I mean, to be fair, they have progressed a lot! I have, after a fashion, asked Rachel to marry me!

After a fashion? Trace asked. Ben, whatever that means, I'm surprised…

Yes, yes. I know. I guess I'm surprised, too. It just happened.

Ben looked absolutely sheepish. He had been a notorious womanizer at Oxford and always claimed he wouldn't get married until he was over 40 and had ensured that the world would never run out of wild oats.

But Rachel's something special. And it's mostly her and her family's safety that I'm worried about. Of course, my parents can leave Israel whenever they want — they have their house in London. But Rachel's family is five generations. They built that country, and they would never leave. And I've promised her, and her father, that I will emigrate to Israel after we're married. Not right away, of course, but in a few years. Which no one can know, of course.

Trace took another look at his friend. Something told him there was still more to this than Ben was saying, and he was perhaps saying more than he should.

Well, congratulations and all that! I hope you'll invite me to the wedding.

Invite you? I want you to be my best man! Really!

Well, I'm honored, and surprised. And I guess I accept. But when and where will this wedding be?

We don't know yet, Ben replied hastily, furtively. We haven't set the date. It's complicated. Her father wants the wedding to be in Israel, but I don't know if that's going to be possible.

Yeah, Israel would be hard for me, too, Trace said. "But back to the issue of another Arab Israeli war and the job you want me to take. How in the world do you think I can make any difference at all? Just by translating some gobbledygook, as your boss says, that happens to plop down in the north of England?"

Ben took another worried look back toward the car, and then glanced down at his watch.

Trace, there's so much more. But we don't have time. Basically, this position is something that's coming down from highest levels of the British Government, through the MoD, the Ministry of Defence. It's intended to be liaised with GSHQ, and believe it or not, I'm the person that has been selected as the liaison. The Americans have resisted it, and they've resisted turning over any of the intel to our guys. But like I said, this request is coming from too high up for them to just say no, especially since the Yorkshire station belongs to the MoD. Ben suddenly gripped Trace by both shoulders.

"Trace, I, we need somebody we can trust on the American side. Someone who will do the job well, of course. And you are the best possible linguist we could find! But also someone who will cooperate. Someone known. That's why we, I need you, Trace!"

Trace was not sure how to respond to this flood of information and his friend's raw, somewhat embarrassing appeal. But before he could, the horn of Ben and O.B.'s pool car began blaring loudly, the sound echoing against the mountainside beyond the river. Popper started howling, and the horses in the pasture began running in circles, snorting loudly.

Hell, O.B.! Ben started striding in the direction of the car. Sorry, Trace. I really wish I could stay and explain. Well, and just visit!

Trace did not follow, so Ben turned around to face him, 10 yards on.

Look, Trace. Promise me one thing, Ben called back, the afternoon sun reflecting in his glasses. Think about the job and what I said. Think about England and all the help you can be, maybe even preventing a war. Call me when you've decided, and I'll come back down on my own time for a proper visit, whatever you decide. Okay, friend?

The horn blared again, short blasts this time — Trace wondered if it was something obscene in Morse code. Ben turned around with a frustrated shake of his head and jogged toward the vehicle.

Trace watched his friend disappear into the pool car, a final wave flung out of the window as the engine started and the wheels scratched gravel. He was relieved to seem them leaving.

The chestnut stallion called from the round pen again, and Trace turned to answer.

CHAPTER 3 — THE LOTTERY

The letter came four days after Ben and O.B. had made their visit to the upland farm. In an eerily similar reenactment of that day, Trace was working a horse in the round pen when he sensed his father standing patiently but persistently in the shadow of the big oak. He didn't need to get Trace's attention this time. The white rectangle in his hand was as mysterious and as obvious as the harvest moon in a cloudless sky. And its meaning was not lost on Trace.

The rest of that day and the next Trace spent wandering around the farm and over the mountains nearby. He spent time in silent consultation with a big old draft horse named Job, who had been both parent and friend to the odd little boy who had liked horses more than people.