But now came the hard part. It should have been the easiest, and it would have been for just about anyone other than Charley, who was, after all, only a fourth grader. He had never mailed anyone a letter in his whole life. While he thought he Understood the process of writing to someone, he had never practiced the procedure. He knew he had to have an envelope, he had to address the envelope, and he had to put a stamp on the finished product. But he didn’t have an envelope, he had never written an address on an envelope, and he didn’t have a stamp. He didn’t even know if one stamp was enough. He thought and thought about it for a long time. He rejected the idea of sneaking back into the study and stealing an envelope. That would be a dead giveaway if one of his father’s own envelopes was used. Charley knew he was helping his father in his work, but he didn’t want him to know the source of his variation in routine. One of the primary things his mother had drilled into him in her tales of spies was the idea of keeping one’s identity a secret. You can’t very well be a spy if everybody knows you’re one, can you?
When inspiration struck, Charley was really quite proud of himself. One of his mother’s frequent reminders about the duties of spies was that they often found it necessary to improvise. There was an interesting word, and Charley knew precisely what it meant. To improvise, to take advantage of existing situations — these were things spies did as a matter of course. So when Charley approached Mrs. Lansdale after class the next day, he had a well-rehearsed story to tell.
“It’s about my report on the post office,” he began.
“The postal system, Charley. Always be precise. Now, how may I help you with your report?” While she was an authoritarian, Mrs. Lansdale really was a concerned teacher, and if her student needed some help, well, she was going to be right there to see that he got it.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Charley. “I want to send a birthday card to my father, but I want him to be surprised. So could you address the envelope for me so that he wouldn’t recognize my writing? And that way I can see exactly how long it takes to be delivered, and could you tell me how many stamps to put on it?” That seemed to cover all the problem areas that Charley had been able to think of, and Mrs. Lansdale was delighted to do her part in the exercise. She even congratulated Charley on being thoughtful enough to send a card. She was a great believer in cards herself, she told him. She sent dozens of them every year to former students she liked to keep in contact with. Her tone implied that Charley would soon join the ranks of those so favored.
Charley presented her with a card and envelope that he had bought at the local candy store. It was a rather fussy card with lots of toy bears on it, but he had selected it for the size of the envelope. Mrs. Lansdale made a mental note to start teaching Charley a few things about taste and design. But then there should be lots of time for that. He was still very young. She wrote his father’s name and address on it in her flowing teacher’s hand, opened her purse, and took a stamp out of her wallet. “One stamp for a card, Charley,” she said. “Let me contribute it in honor of your father’s birthday.” Commodities, she thought to herself. A comfortable retirement not too far down the road.
That evening after dinner when he was supposed to be doing his homework, Charley carefully refolded his father’s papers, put them in the stamped and addressed envelope all ready to drop in the mailbox on his way to school tomorrow morning. He was excited and quite happy. He had saved his father. He had made it impossible for the bad guys to catch him because the poor man didn’t know enough to vary his routine. Somehow he was going to have to teach his father the proper way to behave as a spy, but that was a project for another day. Perhaps during summer vacation when he had more free time and less homework to think about.
Nothing Charley could have anticipated — in fact, nothing in any of the stories his mother had told him — was like the reality of what happened two days later at Charley’s house. Swarms of men were all over the house checking doors and windows. Both Charley and Mrs. Hilton were asked dozens of times to try to remember if any strangers had been seen around the house. Mr. Burton looked tense and worried and didn’t seem to have time for meals or for keeping his usual hours in the study. Charley wasn’t quite sure just what was going on, but he was sure of one thing. There had been a break in his father’s habit pattern. Charley smiled and chalked one up for the good guys.
When the mail was delivered that day, there was a sudden shout from his father, and all the strangers clustered around the hall table where Mr. Burton had just opened a large envelope to reveal his missing papers. Charley stood quietly in the corner watching all the activity. He had guessed right, he thought. His father would have to be a spy. All these strange men looking around the house, asking questions, and now being all excited by the papers in the mail — these were the good guys, he knew, helping his father to discover if anything was missing.
Nobody seemed to pay much attention to the small boy who wandered through the house all weekend. Nobody felt it necessary to lower voices when discussing the handwriting on the envelope, how it was not known to anyone, did not appear in anyone’s files. Two clear sets of fingerprints were on the envelope, aside from the mail carrier’s, but no records of them were in any files that were checked immediately.
“It’s got to be a foreigner,” said one of the tall, quiet men to Mr. Burton. “Note the handwriting. No American writes that way. You can read every letter.” Mrs. Lansdale, one of the last practitioners of the Palmer Method of penmanship, would have been thrilled to hear her work so described.
At dinner that night, Mr. Burton felt obligated to explain to Charley something about what had been going on. “Some of my papers have been mislaid, and these men are helping me find them.”
“Didn’t they come back in the mail?” asked Charley. “I heard one of those men say that they had.”
“Yes,” his father said. “But we have to know who saw them. It’s important for my business,” he added, recognizing the confusion in Charley’s face.
“Commodities?” asked Charley.
“Yes. Commodities.” He took a long look at Charley, put down his fork, and asked quietly, “Do you know what commodities are?”
“No,” said Charley. “But you said I would when I’m older.”
“Well, commodities are things that are grown, or mined, or made, and I buy them for my company.” He resumed eating, but then took pity on Charley’s lost look again. “My company makes things like satellites and communication systems.”
Now Charley was on firm ground. He knew all about satellites and communication systems. They were the things that spies spied for. He was finally able to relax. He was sure that he had done the right thing. Now that his father’s work was out in the open, his position as a spy was clear. But now was the time to stop the conversation. A spy wasn’t supposed to let anyone know what he did, not even his family. So Charley knew that he had to change the subject before his father gave too much away.
“I have to make a report on the postal system for my class project,” he volunteered.