One Touch of Espionage: The Touch Touchstone Series, #1

By David M. Delo

Touch Touchstone Series: Book 1 (Revised), 95,700 words.

Meet "Touch" Touchstone, peacetime US Army Counter Intelligence Agent. The year is 1965; he's been stationed in France because he speaks French. This is his only overseas assignment. He enlisted and has two years left. Touch resides in an apartment in Reuil-Malmaison, France, not far from Paris. He has a roommate, Nick, the unit's darkroom specialist. They become trusted friends and photograph Paris together, day and night.

Touch is one of a number of special agents, but his work is boring. He wants action. After a year, he takes Nick's TR-4 and goes on vacation through Switzerland into Italy. Part of his plan, developed with Nick, is to take a series of photos in various cities for Nick. Almost immediately, he finds himself in situations involving a progressive amount of personal danger. In Bern, while doing a photo for Nick, he is almost killed.

He's smart and begins to believe he has been set up, perhaps by his roommate. Then his girlfriend, Angela, who said she couldn't come, appears, and the next day two unknown individuals try to push him off the tram stop on the face of the Eiger mountain. A shaken Touch drives Angela to Italy via the cobblestone switchbacks of the St. Gotthard Pass. A frantic Touch,  pressed by a speeding black auto is chased down the mountain. He survives only by fast learning and quick reflexes. His pursuer didn't make it.

More attempts on his life occur near Lake Colo and Lake Garda. The situation becomes more complex when Nick arrives and the trio barely survive an attack at night in the Verona amphitheater by Roman legionnaires armed with swords. Finally, Touch is filed in on what's happening, what roles he has been playing, and the dangerous game KGB agents are playing to undermine NATO's Nuclear capability. In the end, the good guys win. Touch is barely alive, however, and ends up with a "Z-shaped" scar while floating in the Bay of Venice.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kingfisher Creations
• Release date: Apr 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393234005

David M. Delo

Bio of author David M. Delo I’ve never been great at anything, but I have been around and have had as many failures as I have successes. After college, I was a C.I. agent for NATO (US Army) in Europe. Back in the USA, I became an educational administrator for the American Geological Institute, in Washington, D.C.; a systems analyst and V. P. at Levi Strauss & Co. in San Francisco; owner of a guest ranch in Wyoming; a P. R. writer for a university library in Illinois and grants writer for a not-for-profit organization in Montana; owner of a publishing company (Kingfisher Creations) through which I authored 10 books; and a semi-professional photographer for half a century. I have also been an artist since 1993 and I have been bipolar II since the mid-1960s. I guess you could say I have had a colorful life. Since the turn of the century, I have resided within the world of creativity. My books (and paintings) are my children and my heritage. My action-mysteries are based on my years in Europe. My historical novels are all based on places to which I have ventured, and I still love my protagonists with whom I identify–a geologist, an artist, a photographer, and an intrepid explorer of the west.

Book preview

Prologue: May 30, 1964, Paris

THE NIGHT AIR ON THE drive from Reuil Malmaison into Paris was exhilarating because it had rained earlier that evening, a short but powerful shower without as much as a thunderclap. The low shroud of clouds had left the night as black as it came, which only made the lights of Paris all the more brilliant. And there was only one Paris.

The downpour had amused the French who watched life from the shelter of their favorite bistros that lined the wide sidewalks of the Champs Elyseés. It infuriated the rest, caught in the open without a shade tree or a parapluie, umbrella, to cover them.

As usual, my roommate, Nick, and I had taken his TR-4 for one of our midweek bar tours. Once each week we reviewed the mug shots of a number of known Eastern Bloc intelligence agents thought to maybe operating out of Paris. For that thirty minute investment, we were paid for the opportunity of cruising Parisian bars and watering holes. Since the tours were on the United States Army, we were quite willing to sacrifice our personal time. In addition, we roamed the streets of the city Friday and Saturday—most often at night looking for jazz joints.

Tonight was supposedly a bit different. We’d both been a bit antsy of late, so we decided to tool into town for a French meal. The humidity stayed uncomfortably high after the shower. I could see little puddles of water trapped between the worn cobblestones which composed the surface of the boulevard surrounding the Arch de Triomphe.

At the last traffic light on the Champs Elyseés before the long, straight stretch toward the Rond Point, a Frenchman in a new Simca pulled alongside. He revved his engine and smiled disdainfully at the two of us in our little black British car.

What do you think? Nick tapped the ash of his cigarette into the overflowing ashtray.

Might be interesting, I said with a grin, always open to a little excitement. As the light turned green, the two machines, side by side, spun wheels and leaped forward. No one paid any attention to our impromptu race. The Champs Elyseés had always been an unofficial speedway. The French delighted in turning their grand boulevard into a playground for their little, squealy, yelloweye bugs.

The Simca and TR-4 sped over shiny cobblestone. The Elyseés was eight lanes wide and it ran true until it intersected La Place de la Concorde. As you approached that oval, a central fountain proffered the world with its artistic delights.

The Champs Elyseés-Concorde intersection was not T-shaped and traffic from the Elyseés entered not at the center of the fountain but near one end of its fountain inner plaza. Traffic simply curved around the end of the fountain.

Just before the racers entered the oval, the Frenchman downshifted and lost traction. The slight slither lost him just enough ground so as the two vehicles reached the intersection, Nick's TR-4 led by a half a length.

Since Nick was on the right of the Simca, French law said he had priorité a droite, the absolute right of way, a right that included cutting in front of anyone on his left.

Oh, yeah! The Frenchman could see what was coming. Nick minimized his arc around the circle, cutting close to the edge of the inner plaza. As he cropped his turn, cutting across traffic lanes from right to left, he put the squeeze on the Simca.

The Frenchman had three options: hit his American competitor and be responsible for an accident, collide with the magnificent fountain and be responsible for damaging a national treasure, or, brake, admit defeat, and wait for another day.

An accident was unthinkable, and to crash into the fountain would create a national incident. Mon Dieu! Parisians adored their sculptures, and this one featured a charming bronze lady who wore nothing but a sly, contented smile. She peered out at us, brazen and gorgeous in her altogether as she cradled a fish that spouted water into a thin-lipped basin.

The driver of the Simca chose to pump his brake. Unfortunately, he waited until the last minute, so he had to brake rather hard. The back end of his car lost traction on the slick cobblestone, the driver overcorrected, and the Simca did an uncontrolled three hundred -sixty degree spin. Luckily, the oval was empty. No harm was done save a nasty bruise to a Frenchman's pride.

Nick tooted the horn twice, and I waved ta ta to our fuming continental challenger. Then Nick slowed to the pace of traffic and we paralleled the Seine River. A mile or so later, we cut north through thinning traffic and entered a neighborhood of old apartments. The widely spaced street lights left most of the arrondisement, district, in shadow, a drab ambiance encouraged by the uniformly gray facades of the buildings from centuries of soot. Nor had this voisinage, neighborhood, seen a new brick since the end of World War II.

By now, however, we needed a little more adventure, so we headed for a bar named Le Fou Monde. Nick slowed, did a U-turn in the street, nosed into an opening between two cars parked on the sidewalk, and killed the motor. Sidewalk parking is encouraged. It reduces the number of fender benders.

Still chuckling at the shaking fist of the French driver, I got out of the TR-4, checked to make sure I had my wallet and cigarettes, and then slipped on my brown suede jacket. Nick unfolded his six-foot, four-inch frame, crossed the street, lit a Winston, and waited.

I checked the details of my appearance in the car door mirror, then strolled across the street, Wasn't that a nice three sixty?

Horatio, said Nick, shaking his head as though feeling sad, you take longer to get ready than the Colonel takes to finish a sentence. How are we going to earn our keep if you're so friggin' slow?

Yes, my given name is Horatio; Horatio Delmer Touchstone. Nick, like everyone, calls me Touch—most of the time anyway. At an early age I decided I was not Horatio, and Delmer sounded like some new kind of plastic, and Touch suited me.  

Without changing pace, I flipped Pirelli the bird. "Et ta mère, mon gar. And your mother, old friend. This barhopping is a total waste and you know it. The last time a real spook stuck his head inside a body shop around here, Colonel Pocket was still in Berlin exchanging food tickets for a quick blow job."

Nick's chuckle turned into a cough. Smoke, curling from his nostrils and angular mouth, turned him into a friendly dragon. So what? he replied. It would spoil his fantasies if we told him we were only eyeballing quail. He'd cut off our funds. And that, you know, would spell the end of these weekly tours de force. We can't afford these places on what we make.

Amen, I said.

I shuffled down a short flight of steps into an unmarked lounge. Once inside, I stopped to let my eyes adjust to the dim, yellow light. The decor and ambiance of the jazz bar was comfortably different from American bars. It had an immediate French stamp. The room was a simple rectangle whose walls were raw brick. A long black bar, an old sofa, and a few oversized lounging pillows occupied the far wall. A jazz trio, led by the blues harmonica of Toots Thielemans played in a distant corner. Closely-spaced wrought iron tables and chairs were scattered haphazardly across the room. Black, wrought iron lamps, projecting from the wall above the tables, emitted a yellow glow.

Like most Parisian nightspots of the mid-1960s, the lowlight ambiance was further softened by a thin haze of smoke gathered about a foot below the ceiling. Le Fou Monde was packed. I eased my way towards the bar. Nearly everyone was talking, yet the mood remained hushed. Several couples, intertwined as mating snakes, carried on at their tables as though they were the only twosome in the room.

I loved the French method of coping with intimacy in public. I admit it. An amorous pair could gain total privacy by simply ignoring the existence of everyone who was not an immediate part of their aura. It was this invisible shield that created the image of the sensual, inwardly focused French lovers at large. Ah, l’amour.

Nick slid between two berets and tried to catch the bartender's eye. The man he was looking for was futzing with the tubes of a hissing espresso machine. I saw the bartender serve several customers in Nick's immediate vicinity as Nick waffled a hundred franc note.

The bartender was a short, paunchy, partially bald man with a white apron wrapped high around his stomach. He looked like someone had molded him by pressing him into a stout jar. He had no neck, but his baggy jowls replicated the curve of a distended stomach. The skin of his face cast a yellow-gray hue, as though jaundiced. His chipmunk cheeks pushed down the corners of his lower lip, providing the man a permanent pout, the perfect expression to complement the curvature of his ponderous black mustache.

Every minute or so, without altering his dour expression or disrupting his routine, the Frenchman pursed his lips two or three times. This muscular exercise endowed his sad sack face with a modicum of life and cleared his drooping Gitane cigarette of its growing ash. Otherwise, the man registered little emotion and less energy.

I knew the bartender was aware of Nick. So did Nick, but there was nothing to do except wait. The Frenchman wiped another draft beer glass on the loose end of his apron. He was in no hurry to favor a onetime visitor, a tourist, sans doubt, without doubt, and American to boot. Indeed, in the dust-colored crowd of Frenchmen, Nick and I stood out like bleached mannequins at a redneck bar.

I leaned against the cool, brick wall and scanned the crowd knowing Nick would eventually prevail. I was in no hurry. A few pair of French eyes glanced at me. In those eyes I saw the same, monotonous message: Yankee, Go Home.

After my first week in Paris, nearly a year ago, now, I told Nick about the negative messages I kept receiving from the locals. He told me not to take it personally. Now I know what he meant. Paris had its priorities. The city belonged first to les mademoiselles, secondly to les artistes, and the clochards, the bums who lived beneath the bridges. After that, the city was the private turf of resident Parisians.

Ask any resident of the city. They were the put-upon, forced to suffer the presence of outsiders, who, by their very presence, adulterated the sterling quality of la Grande Ville, their big city. In truth, Parisian tolerance depended on the nature of the invading race. Visiting French from Marseilles, Nancy, and Brest were but familial annoyances. The Swiss, Canadians, and Italians for the most part were ignored. But for Americans and Germans, the locals went out of their way to be rude.

Neither Nick nor I wanted to go home. We liked Paris. We liked the food, the museums, and the ambiance. And, of course, we lusted after its women with their slender figures, delicate bones, and maddening expressions of total indifference. We agreed French women dressed to the nines, and when they sat with their legs crossed, their high heels pulling willowy calf muscles into smooth, tight lines, and they looked sensuous enough to make one's mouth go dry.

In the cafes and bistros, in contrast to their aloof demeanor, they lavished attention on their male companions. If the men in general had a feigned indifference of their own, it was expressed by the slovenly manner in which they dressed. For the life of me, I could not figure out how to mimic their style.

Nick handed me a drink, then we strolled past several conversations to the far corner of the room, opposite the jazz trio. I'll say this about French women, I said quietly to my friend. They sure know how to turn a guy on.

Nick exhaled a thick plume of smoke. Women, again? Touch, you're not here to get turned on. Pay attention.

Yeah, yeah. I know. Too bad.

I was in Paris, and a man in Paris should not be alone. N'est ce pas? Right? But in my celibate mood, it was fun to let my imagination do my work. So I dipped into my wine while my mind slid smoothly into fantasy.

The crowd parted as I strolled into the room. The maitre d' immediately waved to his staff and issued instructions with urgent hand signals. Two waiters cleared a place for three on the center sofa. I acknowledged the preparations, nodded nonchalantly to several acquaintances, and dropped my fur coat on the couch. My slender, blonde companions slithered out of their wraps.

I patted the cushions next to me. One blonde dipped gracefully to my side and folded her legs beneath her. The second settled on the floor between large cushions and draped an arm over my knee. Heads turned; local conversations died. The syncopated backbeat of the jazz quintet filled the club.

The club owner approached with drinks. He knew what I drank. Bon soir, Touch, he whispered. Ou est que tu les découvrir, mon camarade? Tu m'étonne, toujours. Where do you find them? You continue to astonish me. The man eyed my companions lasciviously.

It's a marvelous town, Henri, I replied in idiomatic French. The women are thick and free, like the pigeons. All you need to do is pay them a little attention."

I handed him a hundred franc note, returned a smile, and nod of recognition to the harmonica player, and stroked Charlene's leg. Life was good."

Nick nudged me with an elbow. You're drifting. I can tell because your eyes are glazed. You're supposed to be examining the crowd and making note of all nefarious characters.

I am. I am! Like the legs at the third table to the left. That's what I call nefarious.

Nick shook his head. You'll never make it to Berlin my friend. Have you managed to take note of a few faces for future reference?

Of course, but the jazz and the legs are more interesting. Ten minutes later I downed the remaining drops of wine. See you outside, I said, and walked away. Nick didn't move. 

Outside the club, I crossed the street, leaned against a building front, and looked around casually for about ten seconds. Satisfied no one was in sight, I slipped into a shadow where I could keep an eye on the club entrance. The air was dark and still. The streetlight at the end of the block hardly reached us. I waited.

A few minutes later, Nick emerged. He stamped on his cigarette; crossed to the black TR-4, got in, and started the motor. I waited a full minute before I joined him. If someone had followed me out of the club, Nick would have been alerted. Had someone had taken an interest in Nick, I would have been in a position to note who it was. Sometimes I carried a small camera with high-speed film. In six months, not a thing had happened.

WHERE TO? ASKED NICK. We were through with business for this evening.

The last restaurant guide I inhaled recommended a place close to the Etoile. You know, one of those one-pan joints with a drab facade, snooty waiters, limited entrees, and superb sauces.

The pencil beams of the sports car disrupted the night. I listened to the Triumph growl while in my peripheral vision I watched Nick run through the gears. Nick's stick frame and long arms reminded me of a Praying Mantis. At six-foot three, he made my five-foot ten look like a midget. We were the same age, but that's where the similarity ended.

Nick was half leg; I was built like a fullback. Nick had lost half of his hair; I had a head full, dark brown and wavy. Nick's high forehead accented the long line of his jaw; I had dimples and a Kirk Douglas chin. The guys in the unit had nicknamed us Mutt and Jeff after some comic strip characters from the 1950’s.

I stuck my arm straight out of the window to feel the cool night air. I was relaxed and free this evening, and with good reason: I was one of a handful of Americans living in Europe's most exciting city, and I was one of a very few who had a license to play while Uncle Sam picked up the tab.

Of course, when I was totally honest with myself, I admitted to being a soldier with camouflage, like a private eye without portfolio, limited to routine security assignments.

In Washington, D.C., my name was on a long list of US Army Counter Intelligence agents in Europe with a shallow cover. I was allowed to wear civilian clothes and live in an apartment but I was till a sergeant in the United States Army. I went to the office every day, typed my own reports, and said sir to all the officers. Everyone used his real name, trench coats were the exception, and the closest I had ever been to a dagger was my dull letter opener.

Why dote on the tedious aspects of life when you can savor the romance? I preferred to see the world as a sprawling Casablanca. Every other army sergeant wore fatigues or dress greens and stood inspection at six in the morning. I wore tailored suits, white shirts, and conservative ties. Other sergeants ate in mess halls and applied for a pass every weekend. I had my own car, shared a pad with Nick in Reuil Malmaison, and tooled in and out of Paris at will; and I was free to go where I wanted at night and every weekend, except, of course, Berlin and Eastern Europe.

Tonight my mind was full of visions of faraway places. Saturday I would launch my first European vacation. I was going to see places I'd never even dreamed of: Switzerland, the Alps, northern Italy! From the leather-cushioned seat in the TR-4, I watched the Parisian parade of well lighted historical monuments. No sir, there could be no finer way to finish my tour of duty than to play away the days and nights in gaie Paris!

The TR-4 squirted around a tight corner onto the Quai du Louvre. Suddenly, bright lights cut into our lane from the opposite side and blinded us. A late model Citroen had lost patience with the leisurely pace and pulled out of line. It rocketed towards us as though the boulevard was a one-way street.

Nick maintained speed. The distance between our Triumph and the Citroen shrank rapidly. Hold on, he said, we've got another French Andretti. Nick twitched his high beam flasher twice, the standard way to drop the gauntlet.

I watched the lights of the approaching automobile blot out more and more of the scene in front of me and tried not to forget Paris was not known for its fender benders. Because Parisian drivers were into serious bluff, collisions were often fatal. I inadvertently tightened my grip on the seat as I calculated how many seconds we had before impact. A half second before a head-on, our antagonist darted left, between two cars.

As the Citroen zipped past, I saw the driver's obscene hand gesture, the French semaphore for Screw you, Mac! Nick whistled and did a thumb's up. I puffed out my cheeks with a sigh of relief and lit another cigarette. Ah yes, I thought as my blood pressure return to normal, when in Paris, never giving way means winning.

I POURED THE LAST DROP of Beaujolais from the flask. Not too shoddy, I said.

Hey, you sot, what do I have to do to get another glass of wine? asked Nick.

Sorry. You're driving, and tomorrow morning is Friday, which means we check back in to the Palace for another day of N. A. T. O. fun and games. Remember?

Nick shrugged. Your loss. I was considering the purchase of a round of Calvados.

I doubt you could taste it, I retorted half seriously. Nick was a chain smoker, and I had decided it was my role to get him to cut back. Otherwise, Nick was an easygoing, career oriented, Army bachelor who served as our unit's photographer.

A few weeks after my arrival at the unit, Nick had showed me his darkroom. When I asked what kind of work he did, he showed me two eight-inch by ten inch prints. The first print was a photograph of the base of the Eiffel Tower, taken from the steps of the Trocadero with a standard lens. A portion of a crowd, gathered near the bridge one hundred yards away, had a red circle drawn around part of it.

The second eight-by-ten print was considerably grainier but still incredibly clear. It showed two men having a conversation. The man on the left wore a striped tie and had a ring on the fourth finger of his upraised hand. The man he talked to had an aquiline nose, narrow face, and long pointed collars that tagged his shirt as French made.

Nick handed me a magnifying glass. The same two men were also in the first print. They were on the bridge that crossed the Seine. Both prints had been made from the same negative.

The TR-4 vibrated over rough cobblestones. Two blocks before the Bois de Boulogne, I tapped Nick on the shoulder. Pull over or pay the consequences. Nick glanced at the sidewalk urinal, braked, and double-parked. I got out and disappeared behind the metal shield.

I unzipped my pants, wrinkled my nose, and sighed while I blessed the practicality of French businessmen. I heard Nick a few feet away.

God, these places stink, I said aloud. Only the French could get away with using the outside panels of a piss sink to advertise perfume.

Silence. But it's this or the woods, and at this time of night we stand a good chance of getting V. D. before we get it back in our pants.

The word at the P. X. is the price for a quickie is down to ten francs, said Nick.

Yeah, so I heard. And you don't even have to get out of the car.

Zip it up and let's go home, said Nick.

THE TRIP THROUGH THE Bois de Boulogne to St. Cloud, then through side streets to the apartment, took twenty minutes. Home was an unassuming neighborhood of plain, four-story, affordable apartments, but the location gave us quick access to the major highways into Paris.

Our flat was eighty-two steps up. No elevator. Coffee? I asked as I walked into the kitchen.

Maybe later.

I plopped on the sofa and looked at my watch. I had enough time for a letter home. I owed one to my sister, Annie. She was always pestering me for details of Parisian life. Tonight I could tell her about my vacation plans for Switzerland and Italy. She would stop writing for two weeks, and then send me hate letters for a month.

Too bad I couldn't tell her anything about my job. Not that anything I did was classified; au contraire, on the contrary, there was little to tell. Routine was routine, and boring was boring, but that was to be expected for a peacetime soldier, even a counter intelligence agent. Unfortunately, even that news was off-limits.

I'm lefthanded, so writing longhand was a hassle. I would have typed my letter tonight, but Nick had requisitioned our only typewriter. I freshened my coffee and took the cup into the kitchen. As I passed Nick's door, I noticed he'd shut it. Unusual; something heavy, I decided.

Back in the living room, I made a few smoke rings, watched them self-destruct, and wondered once again what Nick was working on. Like everyone at the unit, Nick was pretty closed mouth about his work. Curiosity had gotten the better of me several times in the past, but expressions like, You should know better than to ask, quickly set me straight.

With slow, circular motions, I made sure my ballpoint was working, and then wrote, Dear Sis. I could hear the typewriter clicked softly in Nick's room. Maybe he was typing a letter to his folks. More than likely, he was writing a letter that had do with money or something legal. It intrigued be only because I'd never known Nick to type in his room. He pecked away in the living room on two fingers with a cigarette in his mouth and asked me every other minute how to spell a word.

I lit another cigarette and pictured Nick hunched over the typewriter, encircled by a wreath of smoke. There was always a butt smoldering in Nick's vicinity. The apartment smelled like an ashtray. I know; I couldn’t talk. I grunted, blew a final smoke ring, and tended to sibling affairs.

NICK PIRELLI TOOK ANOTHER drag on his Winston and read the half completed page without removing it from the typewriter carriage. The first word on the form was preprinted in red on the form so no one would miss it.

SECRET

To: Major Jim Anderson, Operations Control

Joint Services I. A .C. C. B., Washington, D.C.

From: Euro Control

Update: Project Holiday

Major: Project Holiday will be activated when Subject leaves for Switzerland day after tomorrow. Everything to this point has been approved. As per instructions, all operatives are in place. I will issue final instructions after Subject departs. I anticipate he will reach our first objective no later than—

Nick leaned forward and opened his door part way. Hey, Touch?

Yeah.

When did you say you'd get to Neuchatel?

Nick heard his roommate get up and walk his way. With a cigarette in his left-hand he learned against the doorframe, then pushed Nick’s door open a bit more. Anything in particular? he asked casually.

Not really. I'm writing this guy I know in Washington, D. C. I mentioned your vacation, and made me think about your schedule. I couldn't remember.

Noon, he said. Saturday, about midday. He waffled his hand to show the approximation. Nick nodded and dropped his eyes to the carriage of the typewriter, but he waited until Touch sauntered back to the living room before he continued. 

Saturday, early afternoon, wrote Nick. All communication channels have been verified. Am still missing a backup plan. I consider this element mandatory, as I do not consider Subject expendable.

Please confirm.

Nick reread the last sentence several times but left it as it was. Even a Major needed a reminder now and then. He typed a final paragraph, made two corrections, and then decided to retype the whole thing.

A half hour later, he marked it Copy #1 of 1 and signed above the title block which read: Euro Control, Project Holiday. The document fit into an envelope which already carried a diplomatic pouch stamp on its lower left-hand corner. Nick sealed it, pushed back from the typewriter, and dragged on his cigarette. It had burned down to where it tasted hot and bitter.

He slipped the envelope into his briefcase, put out the smoldering butt, and thought about what he had done. He could smell his feelings of guilt. Touch was a good friend, perhaps the best but orders were orders. In this case, he had no option.

He lit another cigarette, and idly regarded the exhaled smoke. Well, he thought; the next two weeks were going to be very interesting.

Chapter 1: May 31, Washington, D.C.

BRIEFCASE IN HAND, Major Jim Anderson hurried toward the elevator at the rear of the underground car garage. His steps cut crisp echoes in the cavernous room. As he pushed the elevator button, he made a mental note he was on Level Four Red.

When the elevator door opened, the military operator snapped to attention and said, Good morning, sir. Then he punched Level Twelve Black without hesitation. The Corporal had recognized the major, and always kept a list of the day's classified conferences.

Anderson kept glancing at his watch, as if frequent glimpses might make it slow down. At the end of the windowless hall, he flashed his badge at the security guard to whom he muttered, Lo, Bill, then he entered a small, plush conference room, grimly prepared to buck a different kind of traffic from that which had made him ten minutes late.

Normally Major Anderson inhabited the recesses of the old red brick building on K Street which the War Department had salvaged for its Central and South America Counterespionage activities. The Mediterranean was Anderson's specialty. He'd been making steady gains with a technique his disapproving counterparts referred to as off-the-wall tactics.

But it was precisely because of his successes and because he'd received his original training in Europe that a brigadier general in Washington decided Anderson was the best man to oversee a short-term, high priority project about to be activated in Europe.

The meeting he was late for today was related to