“Yes, sir.”
McKinley walked back to his desk. He turned to Reed. He looked deeply troubled. He hesitated. Then—
“Reed,” he said soberly, “has the Manhattan Project been penetrated?”
Reed slowly shook his head.
“Half an hour ago I would have said no,” he answered slowly. “Absolutely not…”
He looked grimly at the general.
“I — don't know.”
8
He squinted through the grimy window at the crisp morning light. From the shadows of his dingy room he cautiously looked up and down the alley below. Only two days before, he had almost been caught….
He'd barely walked out of the fleabag on Lee Street near the B&O Railroad when a carload of eager-beaver FBI men had barreled up. It had taken all his sang-froid to join the small, curious crowd that quickly gathered to watch as two of the agents rushed in the front while others raced to cover the rear. He had to hand it to them. He'd been on the air less than fifteen minutes….
He glanced at his watch. It was almost time.
He took a deep breath. A sharp pain knifed through his chest. That damn wound. About time it stopped bothering him.
He took stock. Again.
He realized that was a weakness. Checking and rechecking. And checking again. Not because of caution, but because of nerves. Something to do. Something to replace sweaty, apprehensive waiting. Like his habit of yawning when he was on edge.
Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing after all. Better than wetting his pants.
He breathed a little more cautiously.
It had been ridiculously easy.
The people of Hagerstown, Maryland, had been cooperative to a fault. Information had been freely — sometimes even proudly — given. He'd had no trouble getting access to town records and plans. He had been able to construct a complete picture. He knew every target point in detaiclass="underline" power stations, sewer system, water supply, industry, transportation, communication and defense — the works. He knew exactly how to paralyze this entire city of over thirty-thousand people quickly and effectively. And for a period long enough to destroy completely the entire complex of Fairchild Aircraft Corporation factories straddling the railroad junction at the northern outskirts of the town. The drop could be made at their test field. The entire operation would take less than twenty-four hours.
He took off his watch and laid it on the table next to his set. Contact time in less than eight minutes.
He looked at the thin wire running from the set. The hotel was in the old part of town. His room was on the top floor. He had planned on putting up his antenna on the roof — but a tight-faced spinster in a room across the hall was using it to dry her underwear. He didn't want to take the chance. Instead he was using the bed. The springs made an effective antenna. He had good contact. And he'd grounded the set with the central heating pipes. It worked.
He pulled his lined pad to him.
He yawned.
He wanted to make his message as short and sweet as possible. He wanted to be on the air as brief a time as possible. He knew the minute he began transmitting, the FBI monitors would pick him up — and he already knew how damned fast they could react.
He printed his message on the paper in block letters. He always waited till the last possible moment before putting anything down. It was a good precaution.
ALL TARGET POINTS LOCATED STOP, he wrote. TAKEOVER CAN BE EFFECTED WITH ONE PARACOMPANY STOP. That ought to do it. ACTIONREADY VAN G8, he finished.
He at once began to encipher the clear text. He used the standard double transposition cipher, which required nothing but pencil and paper and the memorizing of two key words. It eliminated the necessity for an agent in the field to carry incriminating encoding paraphernalia. His key words were OPERATIONAL and SUPERSENSITIVE.
Quickly he printed key word number one and made the number conversion, using one for the first letter of the alphabet that appeared in the word and so on along the line.
He counted the numbers of letters in the clear. Eighty-five. Seventeen groups — right on the button. He did not need to add any nulls. He grinned. He was getting too damned good at this message-writing crap.
He quickly lined out his grid under the converted key word — his cross lines making uneven, careless squares — and wrote his clear below it.
He scribbled his second key word, number-converted it and penciled in his message horizontally below it, starting with the vertical line numbered one and reading down….
He glanced at his watch. Two minutes, twenty seconds. Quickly he copied out his enciphered five-letter groups, again starting with the key-word line numbered one and reading down….
BOOAO WCACR NVYHF ETTEG ETEAE KTEOT APPTT
RTTGN ANIAD I8CAR PNFSN ODESL APYSA COVCT
ARELL INOPE EOADM
He was pleased. With only seventeen groups, he should be on and out in a few minutes.
He turned on his set.
It was time.
He began sending his call letters.
In less than forty seconds he'd made contact. He was just about to start his transmission when the letters QSP, QSP, QSP crackled in his earphones.
The code letters for ACCEPT MY PRIORITY MESSAGE.
Shit, he thought. There goes the fucking ballgame. By the time those bastards transmit their damn priority message, whatever the hell it is, and I get it deciphered and answered and get my own message sent — the FBI'll be able to locate Judge Crater!
Angrily he snapped off QRV, QRV–I AM READY. He hoped his fist showed his annoyance.
He poised his pencil and listened. He held it frozen in astonishment as the transmission began: SENDING CLEAR—
The words came crisply over his earphones. He began to write:
GIVE YOUR LOCATION STOP WAIT FOR PHYSICAL CONTACT STOP ACKNOWLEDGE PAUL
His mind raced. What the hell were they doing back at B-2?
Was it a trick?
Paul was his contact's name. Was it his fist? He could not be sure. Had the FBI cracked his frequency? Did the transmission actually come from the home OSS camp — or the FBI?
He had a sudden icy vision of Ramon, his Filipino classmate. The guy looked just like a Jap. He'd been picked up by the police in some little Midwestern town where he'd been sent on his field problem. It was a good idea — the field problem. It was as close to the real thing as a novice agent could get — without laying his life on the line. He'd be up against the FBI and local law-enforcement agencies who didn't know him from the real article. It wasn't always a picnic. The local gendarmes who'd picked up Ramon thought they'd captured themselves a real, hot-off-the-griddle spy. They'd beaten the shit out of him. Broken his nose, half his teeth, seeing themselves making the Midwest safe for democracy. They didn't know, of course, that Ramon was one of the good guys, and they took their own sweet time calling the Washington executive number he'd finally given them.
The FBI knew just as little about him, he realized. They didn't know he was on an OSS field problem. He had no identification. It was a kind of getting-back-in-shape exercise after his abortive mission. His chest and elbow suddenly hurt. He swore under his breath. Shit! They'd play it for real, too….
He adjusted his head-set. It felt sweaty. Did his ears sweat, for crissake?
He had to make sure. If it was an FBI intercept — he'd better beat it the hell out of there. Fast!
His fingers flew over the keys.
IF PAUL WHAT IS MANNY'S RETREAT?
He waited.