“Till I didn’t need him on the night shift with Sam. They’d have to bring in a temporary. And like I say, I know. I knew he was being sent in from the other factory, I knew he was coming in by the eight forty, stopping outside The Pig. I knew Jim was meeting him there and having a pint with him before they went off to work. It was just a matter of waiting till the time coincided exactly, them following Jellinks out immediately. And that night it did, as I knew very soon it must. That wasn’t chance, Gran, that wasn’t luck. That was good judgment.”
“Yes, good judgment.” But wasn’t that for God, really? Was it for mere man to hand out judgment — to hold trial, to find guilty, to sentence, to execute? She said, following her own line of thought, “After all, Bill, this was not murder.
He didn’t intend to kill them.” “He didn’t care whether he did or not,” said Bill. “That was good enough for me.”
“Well...” she said doubtfully. “But you’re not God, are you, love? The Hand of God, they’re calling it.” She mused over it. “The Hand of God. Mind you, I’ll say not another word about it, not even to you. But... wouldn’t some people say you should have left it, Bill? Just left it to Him, put your hand into the Hand of God.”
“And so I did, my old dear,” he said, leaning across to unwrap the warm rug from about her ancient legs and then lead her into the cottage. “So I did. But just to make certain, I gave it a bit of a tug.”
The Spy and the Walrus Cipher
by Edward D. Hoch
Mr. Hoch reminds us that “the Rand stories started out being about codes and ciphers,” and he is always pleased when he “can return to that original concept of a secret message.” We are also pleased. As for Rand, the Double-C man, he must be pleased too. When Hastings, his former superior, calls, Rand can’t help wondering if he’ll ever be free of his past, when he was director of Concealed Communications for British Intelligence. But thank St. Edgar, Rand does go back to work — grumbling a bit perhaps, but deep down, pleased...
“We have a defector,” Hastings said over the telephone. “A really top-level fellow, straight from Moscow.”
“Good for you!” Rand congratulated him. “I’m retired, remember?”
“And I know I promised not to bother you with our troubles, Rand, but we’re in a bit of a bind. We have this fellow at the estate up in Scotland along with a crack team of debriefers, and the trouble is he won’t talk.”
“Won’t talk? Then what did he defect for?”
“He says he’ll talk to you, Rand. Nobody else.”
“Who is it?”
Hastings hesitated. “Your home telephone isn’t secure. I don’t want to mention any names.”
Rand held the receiver away from him, tempted to hang up and be done with it. Still, if the defector was asking for him—
“All right,” he decided. “I suppose I can come see him. Where do you want me?”
“I can’t go up myself. We’re busy with this Middle East thing. But if you’ll be at Heathrow at ten in the morning I’ll have someone meet you with instructions and plane tickets. We’ll want you to fly up there, of course. It’s too dangerous bringing him down to London.”
“Very well,” Rand agreed. He hung up the phone wondering if he would ever be free of his past, free of Hastings and those others who’d been part of his life when he was director of Concealed Communications for British Intelligence.
He went into the kitchen and told his wife, “Leila, I have to go away for a few days. Up to Scotland.”
She didn’t look up from the mixing bowl. It was her semester break from the course she taught at Reading University, and Rand knew she’d been hoping they could go off somewhere for a few days. “For Hastings?” she asked simply.
“Yes.”
“It’s always for Hastings, isn’t it? How much of our lives does that man want?”
“They have a defector. He won’t speak to anyone but me.”
“It must be nice to feel so wanted.”
“Leila—”
“Never mind. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll try to be back by Wednesday. We’ll still have the weekend.”
“Yes. The weekend.”
Spring came late to that portion of Scotland, and though the trees were beginning to leaf out there was still a memory of winter’s dampness clinging to the air. Rand had visited the estate, as it was called, only once before — when he’d been a junior cipher clerk in British Intelligence. Now, driving up to the front door with a laconic chauffeur who’d met him at Glasgow Airport, he was struck at once by the changes which had gone into modernizing the place. They might pass unnoticed to the casual observer, but to Rand’s practiced eye the steel window grilles, the unobtrusive television cameras, and the electronic door locks shouted a need to keep people out — or in, as the case may be.
The present interior of the rambling country house was even more startling. An entire wing that had once housed a cozy library and study had been gutted to make room for a modern computer and communications center. Sir Roscoe Hammond, the tall white-haired intelligence officer who’d greeted him at the door, seemed to take particular pride in it.
“We have equipment here that’s the equal of anything in Whitehall or your old department, Rand. Instant communication with any British embassy in the world, plus the latest in decoding equipment. This is my responsibility at those times when we don’t have guests staying here.”
“When will I meet your guests?”
“The debriefing team will be at lunch. They’ve delayed it especially for you.” They walked past a row of electric typewriters where tailored young women worked without looking up. “What do you think of it all, eh? Changed quite a bit since your last visit, I’ll wager.”
“It certainly has,” Rand agreed, wondering how this proper diplomat knew of his last visit. Perhaps on one of those computer reels behind their dustproof windows was stored the history of everyone who crossed these portals.
“This way, then,” Hammond said. “You must be hungry.”
Rand was pleased to see that the massive formal dining room, at least, had been left intact. The long table could seat a dozen with ease, but at the moment there were only six places set, clustered at one end. A striking young woman with coal-black hair turned and smiled as they entered.
“Ah, Roscoe, so you’ve brought our visitor! This must be the celebrated Mr. Rand.”
Rand returned her smile. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
Hammond took charge of the introductions. “Rand, this is Polly Carver, our language expert. As it turned out, we haven’t needed her skills. The person in question speaks quite acceptable English.”
She shook Rand’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“I hope I’m not all that celebrated,” he remarked, unable to tear his gaze from her emerald-green eyes. “It can be fatal in this line of work.”
“Ah, but you’re retired, and retired spies are like retired chief inspectors of Scotland Yard. They settle down to write their memoirs and appear on television talk shows.”
“I haven’t done that yet, though I will admit to doing a bit of writing. I may even turn to fiction, if that’s a way around the Official Secrets Act.”
She directed him to a chair next to her own, while Hammond went in search of the others. “You seem awfully young to be retired. When they said the famous Rand was coming up to see our prize I anticipated a kindly gray-haired gentleman with a walking stick.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” he murmured.
“It’s hardly a disappointment! In fact, you’re the one bright spot of an otherwise dreary week. I expect—”