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dochermes"I Fought the FBI For the Communist Party"
11/17-11/23/1951
I.
Ushered into the warm stuffy little office on the top floor, Mark Drum loomed up three inches taller than the two agents who had closely escorted him in. He removed his fedora politely, took the seat offered in front of the cluttered desk and promptly leaned over to adjust the gooseneck lamp so it wasn't glaring directly into his face.
"Let's not be so obvious, boys," he said. The faint Scots burr had never completely left his voice. Drum's long, craggy face was all sharp edges. The thick black hair still had no traces of white in it and the cold grey eyes were as alert as ever. He was obviously not intimidated in the slightest.
Moving around to sit behind the desk was the older FBI agent, a stocky bulldog of a man named Hotchkiss. Remaining on his feet a slight distance to one side was a matinee idol type who had been introduced as Tierney. Both men lit up unfiltered cigarettes at once, neither asked Drum if he wanted to smoke.
"Mr Drum, your record speaks for itself," Hotchkiss began immediately. "The War Office has a file on you thick as a Manhattan directory. You were very busy indeed in those years. And your image was great for morale. The intrepid Blue Guide, crushing Axis saboteurs and vicious black marketeers and assorted madmen. Yet most of what you did didn't make the papers."
"I never wanted medals or parades," Drum answered.
"When the war ended, you cut back on your heroism. Mr Drum, it's been six years and you've stayed out of the public eye. One might wonder if you didn't feel your country needed you any more."
The Blue Guide lowered his rather shaggy eyebrows ominously. "Go on."
"Your semi-retirement began at the same time you took a wife," Tierney said. Drum did not immediately glance over at him. It was an old old tactic to make a suspect glance back and forth to rattle or unnerve him.
"A Russian wife," Hotchkiss went on, emphasizing the adjective.
Keeping anger from his voice with an effort, Drum said, "I'm sure you two have seen the paperwork. Sonia is a naturalized American citizen." He added, "She deserves your respect."
"She's still a Russian..."
Drum snorted. "A few years ago, we were told to hate the Japs and like the Chinese and Russian freedom fighters. Everything got switched around. Now we're being told to hate the Russians and Chinese and like the Japanese instead. And no matter what doublethink orders you two swallow, no matter how international politics work out, I will still love my Sonia like life itself. No power on Earth can change that."
There was tense silence for a moment. Behind the desk, Hotchkiss took a last deep drag and stubbed his cigarette out. "These are perilous times for this country of ours. We need to know where your loyalties lie, Mr Drum. After a questionable outburst like that...."
"There is no reason to doubt my loyalty," Drum snapped. "Neither of you put your life in danger as deeply or as often as I did. I know you have a list there of the enemy spies and saboteurs I killed or captured!"
"Yes," said Hotchkiss, leaning forward on the desk. "It's interesting that one escaped you. Several times. Stalin's personal executioner, the man that SMERSH feared, the warlock with that cursed sword."
Drum held himself in control. He would not be baited into raising his voice or making dramatic gestures. "None of you could even slow the Red Blade down," he said evenly. "I aborted his plans a half dozen times and sent him back to Moscow in disgrace. You FBI men can't say the same."
"Igor Petrov, the Red Blade, is the father of Sonia..."
Drum cut the man off. "Don't go there. Don't. You. Dare. Watch what you say about a man's wife."
"Oh, I know about your supposed supernatural abilities, Mr Drum. Too many witnesses have attested to them for doubt. Walking through walls. Draining the life out of a man. Firing lightning bolts from your fingertips. All ridiculous, of course, and yet so many agents swear under oath to seeing you do these things. I'm sure you could strike me down right now or hypnotize us and walk out if you wished."
"What's the point of all this, Mr Hotchkiss?"
The agent stood up, leaning forward on stiffened arms. "Do you love your country? Would you do anything to protect her?"
"You see, there's what is bothering you," Mark Drum replied. "YOU are not my country. The FBI, the administration in power right now, Army Intelligence... none of you are America. You work for America but you don't always do the right thing."
"I don't like that kind of talk, mister!"
Very quietly, Drum said, "It's important that I can say things you don't like."
That stopped Hotchkiss as he was taking in a breath to yell. "All right. Let's try another angle. You know there are a large number of Commmie cells working in this country, digging under the skin like parasites, stirring up unrest, sending secrets back to the Kremlin."
"Sure. It's been called the Cold War by the papers. Like the Underground in France or the Fifth Columnists here."
The younger man Tierney spoke up, "We see you've tangled with this subversive gang called Those Who Remember four times."
"Oh, yes." Drum still did not move his head toward the man. "They're a bigger threat than all the Red cells in my opinion."
"They're not Commies, though?"
"Not to my knowledge," Drum answered. "They're Black Magic. Those Who Remember don't care about politics. They're up to worse evils than mere Human corruption."
"Bunch of filthy degenerates!" shouted Hotchkiss with unexpected fervor. "They make me sick! The things they do at their orgies, the Satanic ceremonies, the sacrifices... I don't know why a just God allows them to live."
Drum had been sitting back in his straight back chair, seemingly relaxed. He leaned forward, toying with his hat. "Maybe it's meant for us to step up. What's going on with Those Who Remember?"
Both agents glanced at each other. Hotchkiss reached into his inner pocket for a crumpled pack of Marlboros and lit one up. After drawing in a deep hissing drag, he said, "Bad news, Mr Drum. We've intercepted some phone calls between two men. One is an American who joined the Communist Party nine years ago. He's a true believer, he buys all the garbage the Party sells. And he's been seen meeting with a man named Rostov. Ah, I see you know him."
"Only by reputation," Drum said. "But I'd like to be within arm's reach of Alton Rostov very much. Just the two of us."
"Glad to hear that," Hotchkiss put out a half-smoked cigarette and brushed his hands together. "They're meeting for drinks Friday night, here in Washington at a little place called Salvatore's. We thought you'd be interested."
For the first time, the familiar wry tone returned to Drum's voice. "As it happens, I'm free Friday night."
II.
But it was the very next night at two-thirty in the morning that Mark Drum strode grimly down the long dingy hallway of that office building on Ralston Street. He had manifested the Veil. Drum was not literally invisible, as he still would show up on film and be detected by microphones. His Blue Guide powers affected lifeforce. Under his concentration, an aura of the transcendental gralic force prevented any persons in the area for being aware of him. He had walked right into the building and past the agent at the front desk who was filling out a stack of forms without being detected.
Up the side stairs to the fifth and top floor, peering out through the glass panel in the white metal door, Drum emerged within sight of the room where he had been questioned the previous night. A man in one of the ubiquitous black business suits was pausing to initial a piece of paper on a clipboard dangling from a nail on the wall. He moved down the hall and around the corner. That gave at least nominal evidence he had checked this area while making the rounds.
Once he was out of sight, Drum went directly to the door whose frosted glass panel bore the cryptic 5A1. Despite some of the wilder rumors about his abilities, he could not pass through walls like a ghost. His powers did not affect inanimate matter. The lock was a basic Schlage. Drum extracted a soft leather case from inside his heavy topcoat and patiently went to work. It also took longer to pick a lock than he would liked, but with four minutes he went in the office and closing the door behind him.
He took a minute to arrange his topcoat along the lower edge of the door to prevent any glint of light from showing to the hall outside. Moving from memory, he found the edge of the desk and clicked the gooseneck lamp on. Only then, with a relieved exhalation, did he left the Veil fade. Being invisible took rigid concentration comparable to doing math in one's head and keeping it up was tiring. Already wearing thin silk gloves to prevent leaving fingerprints, Mark Drum began his search.
The morality of his burglary of an FBI office did not trouble him in the least. Since 1939, Drum had been a knight of Tel Shai and he answered to the ethics of that ancient Order. Knights served justice, not law. He had committed many felonies in his career and had from the start accepted that he might well end up permanently in a federal penitentiary.
Starting with the desk, he found all the drawers locked, which naturally took more time to get started. Drum did not read every memo or scrap of jotted notes thoroughly. He was looking for a dozen significant words. An hour crawled by with numbing lack of results. So much wordage went into excruciating detail about minor rules and procedures and how one office hadn't applied properly for more typewriter ribbons. None of this was code as far as he could tell, just bureaucratic slog.
Eventually, he found himself pulling the desk drawers and checking their undersides. There it was. A regulation sized business envelope held in place with clear Scotch tape. Now this could be interesting. Drum slowly detached the envelope. He had no way to steam the flap open so it could be resealed undetectably, This was crossing the danger line where he gave away that he (or some spy) had been in the office. The Blue Guide scowled more than usual, took up a blunt letter opener and neatly slit the envelope open.
Dead silence held the room for minutes. Then Drum inhaled sharply as he realized he had been holding his breath. There were three sheets of 8x12 paper, along with the carbons and the yellow copies, all neatly held together at the top left with a paper clip. Typed in capitals on the top sheet was TO BE DESTROYED 1951/10-11, a procedure which had obviously not been carried out. Probably either Hotchkiss or Tierney was holding on to these memos for protection or to use as leverage. Espionage was crawling with double-dealing and treachery.
He read everything slowly and carefully, took a few minutes to sit down in one of the chairs and went over the papers again. Mark Drum turned off the desk lamp, picked up his suit jacket from where it was blocking the lower edge of the door and tugged it on. The envelope went into an inner pocket.
Standing in the stuffy darkness of that office, Drum extended his awareness out past the door. His powers as a Blue Guide did not affect inanimate matter. He could regulate the lifeforce of other living beings to heal or weaken them, he could hypnotize all but the strongest wills. In combat, Drum caused convulsions in opponents by making their muscles all contract at once. Now, being open to any lifeforce in the area, he was satisfied the guard was not on that floor at the moment.
He stepped out into the hallway, surrounding himself with an aura of gralic force that would prevent anyone from seeing or hearing him. As he strode toward the staircase, Drum's fists were clenched white and his legs moved stiffly. He had seldom been so furious.
III.
At eighty-forty Friday evening, Stan Melnick slid in behind the wheel of his dark green Plymouth DeLuxe. More than enough time to reach the restaurant and negotiate with Rostov, he could drive at a leisurely pace for once. He eased out into heavy traffic, started fiddling with the knob on the radio and came to a stop at a red light.
From the back seat, a stern low voice said, "Don't panic, Stan. You're not in any danger."
"What the HELL?" Melnick yelped. "I know I looked back there. How'd you hide like that?"
"You can only see me if I want you to," said the voice. "You may have heard of me. Mark Drum?"
As the signal turned green, Melnick started rolling forward again. "Drum? Of course, everybody knows who you are. I honestly didn't think you were real. I figured you were just a folk tale. A boogey man to scare the bad guys."
"I have bad news for you. Very bad," Drum continued. "Don't bother to deny what I'm about to say. Your grandparents were Czech. You speak a little Czech. That's one reason why the Bureau picked you for your assignment. For the past six years, you have been a card-carrying member of the American Communist Party. Your ex-wife and former friends all hate you for it. Your cover job at the steel-working plant has been at risk. But what only a few people know is that you are reporting to the FBI everything you see and hear.. to the new Department 21 Black, in fact."
Melnick said nothing in response, driving forward without comment.
"Find a parking spot where you can read some papers," Drum said. "I know that tonight you're supposed to meet Alton Rostov for dinner. He's not going to show. I've decoyed him away. And you are going to have plenty to think about."
Near the corner of Hickory and First, Melnick pulled in directly under a streetlight. He turned off the powerful engine and twisted his head back to stare at his unexpected passenger just as Drum handed him a wide manila envelope.
Ten long minutes crawled by in silence. It wasn't until Stan Melnick placed the papers back into the envelope that Mark Drum spoke again, "You may know I worked with the OSS during the War, and G-2 Army Intelligence. I've had to deal with the new CIA. And now, I'm having to interact with the FBI's Department 21 Black. They all play a game that's dirty by its very nature. They've all sacrificed their own agents that same way the military has to send soldiers to their deaths."
Another minute passed before Melnick took a deep shuddering breath. "As God is my witness, I gave up everything. My family and my friends despise me. Everyone I know thinks I'm a dirty Red. And after all that.. after all that..."
"Your office is going to bring you up on espionage charges. They intend for you to spend the next ten years in a Federal prison. They're doing this to get an opening to the spymaster who runs your cell. They expect him to try to speak up for you and maybe offer legal aid." Drum made a disgusted sound. "Giving up a pawn to make a bishop expose himself, they're playing chess with human lives."
The interior of the car was silent for long uncomfortable minutes. Then, Melnick let out a resigned sigh. "You know, spies above a certain level make what we call a 'parachute.' It's usually like a duffel bag or suitcase full of cash, some IDs and passports, a nice business suit, usually a pistol and ammo. I've got mine stored in a pawn shop where the owner keeps it safe. I've always wanted to see Cancun."
"Well, I have done what I can by warning you," Drum said. He opened up the rear door of the car and paused to add, "Good luck."
IV.
Two days later, Drum awoke at dawn as usual. It was the last day he and Sonia would be staying at the Brock Arms Hotel and their packing was done but there would be phone calls to make before they headed to the airport. Pulling on a heavy gold-colored robe over flannel pajamas, he opened the suite door. Sensing no life activity nearby, he reached down to where a neatly folded copy of the WASHINGTON POST had been left for him.
Drum went back into the suite which was larger and more elegant than many apartments he had known as a young man. Some coffee would be welcome. The aroma would gently awaken Sonia too. He paused to glance over the headlines. Fighting in Korea was not going well. Some movie star had been arrested for drunk brawling. And then, low on the page, he saw a item about a local businessman dying in a tragic fall.
A cold jolt hit his chest. He turned to page three and there it was. Carl Melnick. His car had been found at a scenic bend on the road miles out in the country. Apparently he had gotten out to enjoy the scenery, had stepped over the low railing and fallen more than eighty feet to a rocky death.
Like Hell. Even during the war, Drum had seldom felt such overwhelming rage. Only with great self-control did he keep from bellowing out loud and smashing every object within reach. No. This was a time to be hard and deliberate. He folded the paper up again and went to start the chrome General Electric coffee maker. He had to come up with a plan.
From the doorway, Sonia emerged yawning. Her straight black hair reached down her back to the thick waist. She was not a beautiful woman, but her face showed so much kindness and warmth that people were drawn to her at once. >"Good morning my love,"< she said in Russian with her Georgian accent.
"Sonia, I have bad news. We must remain here another day, perhaps two. I am sorry."
She pulled out a chair at the small round table. "Do not apologize, Mark. I am so used to this. There is a fire you must put out. Someone is in danger or a bad person has turned up."
"Yes." Getting the bag of coffee grounds from a cabinet, he gave her as much of a smile as he could manage. "Several bad people."
V.
Just before dawn, a savage backhand slap across the face woke Mikhail Rostov. He struggled confusedly with the heavy blankets, caught his breath and sat up. For a full five seconds, his mind could not process the situation. His bedroom was flooded with pale blue light which shone from a tall figure at the foot of his bed.
"Drum...." breathed Rostov.
"It's no use calling for your guards," the Blue Guide told him. "They're enjoying a deep restful sleep right now."
The spymaster jabbed his hand up under his pillow for his handgun but then slumped down wearily. His head fell back. "What... have you done to me?"
"I have turned down your lifeforce as you might turn down a gas flame." Drum's voice had deadly calm finality to it. It was the voice of a judge giving the death sentence. "Right now, your heart has enough energy to beat. Your lungs draw in air. But make no mistake, you are close to dying."
"Wait. You must want something.. or I would be dead already.."
"You worked for the Red Blade. You know all about me, Rostov. You know I can snuff out your life no matter where you are, no matter how you try to hide."
Taking rapid shallow breaths, the Russian agent could barely manage to ask, "What do you want?"
"You are going to leave this country. Today. I don't care where you go. But if I sense your lifeforce here tomorrow night, I will turn it off. I swear it."
Feeling some of the weakness ease up, Rostov pressed a hand to his heaving chest. "I can't... SMERSH will find me..."
"Maybe. Stalin's executioners are certainly a threat. But I am a certainty." Mark Drum let the blue radiance ebb slightly as he stepped back. "You will sleep now. When you wake up, run for your life. I will be watching."
With that, the Blue Guide spun and stalked stiffly from the bedroom, past the snoring gunmen in the living room and out of the apartment into the darkened streets. This would rob those FBI weasels of their intended goal. Not being able to find Mikhail Rostov would be a huge disappointment to them and it would be a black mark against them that their superiors would long remember. At the very least, no promotions for them in the near future.
Striding down the deserted misty streets of Georgetown, Mark Drum felt no triumph. This action tonight did not make up for how badly Melnick had been mistreated after his loyal service. But it was all he manage. It would have to do.
9/11/2024
11/17-11/23/1951
I.
Ushered into the warm stuffy little office on the top floor, Mark Drum loomed up three inches taller than the two agents who had closely escorted him in. He removed his fedora politely, took the seat offered in front of the cluttered desk and promptly leaned over to adjust the gooseneck lamp so it wasn't glaring directly into his face.
"Let's not be so obvious, boys," he said. The faint Scots burr had never completely left his voice. Drum's long, craggy face was all sharp edges. The thick black hair still had no traces of white in it and the cold grey eyes were as alert as ever. He was obviously not intimidated in the slightest.
Moving around to sit behind the desk was the older FBI agent, a stocky bulldog of a man named Hotchkiss. Remaining on his feet a slight distance to one side was a matinee idol type who had been introduced as Tierney. Both men lit up unfiltered cigarettes at once, neither asked Drum if he wanted to smoke.
"Mr Drum, your record speaks for itself," Hotchkiss began immediately. "The War Office has a file on you thick as a Manhattan directory. You were very busy indeed in those years. And your image was great for morale. The intrepid Blue Guide, crushing Axis saboteurs and vicious black marketeers and assorted madmen. Yet most of what you did didn't make the papers."
"I never wanted medals or parades," Drum answered.
"When the war ended, you cut back on your heroism. Mr Drum, it's been six years and you've stayed out of the public eye. One might wonder if you didn't feel your country needed you any more."
The Blue Guide lowered his rather shaggy eyebrows ominously. "Go on."
"Your semi-retirement began at the same time you took a wife," Tierney said. Drum did not immediately glance over at him. It was an old old tactic to make a suspect glance back and forth to rattle or unnerve him.
"A Russian wife," Hotchkiss went on, emphasizing the adjective.
Keeping anger from his voice with an effort, Drum said, "I'm sure you two have seen the paperwork. Sonia is a naturalized American citizen." He added, "She deserves your respect."
"She's still a Russian..."
Drum snorted. "A few years ago, we were told to hate the Japs and like the Chinese and Russian freedom fighters. Everything got switched around. Now we're being told to hate the Russians and Chinese and like the Japanese instead. And no matter what doublethink orders you two swallow, no matter how international politics work out, I will still love my Sonia like life itself. No power on Earth can change that."
There was tense silence for a moment. Behind the desk, Hotchkiss took a last deep drag and stubbed his cigarette out. "These are perilous times for this country of ours. We need to know where your loyalties lie, Mr Drum. After a questionable outburst like that...."
"There is no reason to doubt my loyalty," Drum snapped. "Neither of you put your life in danger as deeply or as often as I did. I know you have a list there of the enemy spies and saboteurs I killed or captured!"
"Yes," said Hotchkiss, leaning forward on the desk. "It's interesting that one escaped you. Several times. Stalin's personal executioner, the man that SMERSH feared, the warlock with that cursed sword."
Drum held himself in control. He would not be baited into raising his voice or making dramatic gestures. "None of you could even slow the Red Blade down," he said evenly. "I aborted his plans a half dozen times and sent him back to Moscow in disgrace. You FBI men can't say the same."
"Igor Petrov, the Red Blade, is the father of Sonia..."
Drum cut the man off. "Don't go there. Don't. You. Dare. Watch what you say about a man's wife."
"Oh, I know about your supposed supernatural abilities, Mr Drum. Too many witnesses have attested to them for doubt. Walking through walls. Draining the life out of a man. Firing lightning bolts from your fingertips. All ridiculous, of course, and yet so many agents swear under oath to seeing you do these things. I'm sure you could strike me down right now or hypnotize us and walk out if you wished."
"What's the point of all this, Mr Hotchkiss?"
The agent stood up, leaning forward on stiffened arms. "Do you love your country? Would you do anything to protect her?"
"You see, there's what is bothering you," Mark Drum replied. "YOU are not my country. The FBI, the administration in power right now, Army Intelligence... none of you are America. You work for America but you don't always do the right thing."
"I don't like that kind of talk, mister!"
Very quietly, Drum said, "It's important that I can say things you don't like."
That stopped Hotchkiss as he was taking in a breath to yell. "All right. Let's try another angle. You know there are a large number of Commmie cells working in this country, digging under the skin like parasites, stirring up unrest, sending secrets back to the Kremlin."
"Sure. It's been called the Cold War by the papers. Like the Underground in France or the Fifth Columnists here."
The younger man Tierney spoke up, "We see you've tangled with this subversive gang called Those Who Remember four times."
"Oh, yes." Drum still did not move his head toward the man. "They're a bigger threat than all the Red cells in my opinion."
"They're not Commies, though?"
"Not to my knowledge," Drum answered. "They're Black Magic. Those Who Remember don't care about politics. They're up to worse evils than mere Human corruption."
"Bunch of filthy degenerates!" shouted Hotchkiss with unexpected fervor. "They make me sick! The things they do at their orgies, the Satanic ceremonies, the sacrifices... I don't know why a just God allows them to live."
Drum had been sitting back in his straight back chair, seemingly relaxed. He leaned forward, toying with his hat. "Maybe it's meant for us to step up. What's going on with Those Who Remember?"
Both agents glanced at each other. Hotchkiss reached into his inner pocket for a crumpled pack of Marlboros and lit one up. After drawing in a deep hissing drag, he said, "Bad news, Mr Drum. We've intercepted some phone calls between two men. One is an American who joined the Communist Party nine years ago. He's a true believer, he buys all the garbage the Party sells. And he's been seen meeting with a man named Rostov. Ah, I see you know him."
"Only by reputation," Drum said. "But I'd like to be within arm's reach of Alton Rostov very much. Just the two of us."
"Glad to hear that," Hotchkiss put out a half-smoked cigarette and brushed his hands together. "They're meeting for drinks Friday night, here in Washington at a little place called Salvatore's. We thought you'd be interested."
For the first time, the familiar wry tone returned to Drum's voice. "As it happens, I'm free Friday night."
II.
But it was the very next night at two-thirty in the morning that Mark Drum strode grimly down the long dingy hallway of that office building on Ralston Street. He had manifested the Veil. Drum was not literally invisible, as he still would show up on film and be detected by microphones. His Blue Guide powers affected lifeforce. Under his concentration, an aura of the transcendental gralic force prevented any persons in the area for being aware of him. He had walked right into the building and past the agent at the front desk who was filling out a stack of forms without being detected.
Up the side stairs to the fifth and top floor, peering out through the glass panel in the white metal door, Drum emerged within sight of the room where he had been questioned the previous night. A man in one of the ubiquitous black business suits was pausing to initial a piece of paper on a clipboard dangling from a nail on the wall. He moved down the hall and around the corner. That gave at least nominal evidence he had checked this area while making the rounds.
Once he was out of sight, Drum went directly to the door whose frosted glass panel bore the cryptic 5A1. Despite some of the wilder rumors about his abilities, he could not pass through walls like a ghost. His powers did not affect inanimate matter. The lock was a basic Schlage. Drum extracted a soft leather case from inside his heavy topcoat and patiently went to work. It also took longer to pick a lock than he would liked, but with four minutes he went in the office and closing the door behind him.
He took a minute to arrange his topcoat along the lower edge of the door to prevent any glint of light from showing to the hall outside. Moving from memory, he found the edge of the desk and clicked the gooseneck lamp on. Only then, with a relieved exhalation, did he left the Veil fade. Being invisible took rigid concentration comparable to doing math in one's head and keeping it up was tiring. Already wearing thin silk gloves to prevent leaving fingerprints, Mark Drum began his search.
The morality of his burglary of an FBI office did not trouble him in the least. Since 1939, Drum had been a knight of Tel Shai and he answered to the ethics of that ancient Order. Knights served justice, not law. He had committed many felonies in his career and had from the start accepted that he might well end up permanently in a federal penitentiary.
Starting with the desk, he found all the drawers locked, which naturally took more time to get started. Drum did not read every memo or scrap of jotted notes thoroughly. He was looking for a dozen significant words. An hour crawled by with numbing lack of results. So much wordage went into excruciating detail about minor rules and procedures and how one office hadn't applied properly for more typewriter ribbons. None of this was code as far as he could tell, just bureaucratic slog.
Eventually, he found himself pulling the desk drawers and checking their undersides. There it was. A regulation sized business envelope held in place with clear Scotch tape. Now this could be interesting. Drum slowly detached the envelope. He had no way to steam the flap open so it could be resealed undetectably, This was crossing the danger line where he gave away that he (or some spy) had been in the office. The Blue Guide scowled more than usual, took up a blunt letter opener and neatly slit the envelope open.
Dead silence held the room for minutes. Then Drum inhaled sharply as he realized he had been holding his breath. There were three sheets of 8x12 paper, along with the carbons and the yellow copies, all neatly held together at the top left with a paper clip. Typed in capitals on the top sheet was TO BE DESTROYED 1951/10-11, a procedure which had obviously not been carried out. Probably either Hotchkiss or Tierney was holding on to these memos for protection or to use as leverage. Espionage was crawling with double-dealing and treachery.
He read everything slowly and carefully, took a few minutes to sit down in one of the chairs and went over the papers again. Mark Drum turned off the desk lamp, picked up his suit jacket from where it was blocking the lower edge of the door and tugged it on. The envelope went into an inner pocket.
Standing in the stuffy darkness of that office, Drum extended his awareness out past the door. His powers as a Blue Guide did not affect inanimate matter. He could regulate the lifeforce of other living beings to heal or weaken them, he could hypnotize all but the strongest wills. In combat, Drum caused convulsions in opponents by making their muscles all contract at once. Now, being open to any lifeforce in the area, he was satisfied the guard was not on that floor at the moment.
He stepped out into the hallway, surrounding himself with an aura of gralic force that would prevent anyone from seeing or hearing him. As he strode toward the staircase, Drum's fists were clenched white and his legs moved stiffly. He had seldom been so furious.
III.
At eighty-forty Friday evening, Stan Melnick slid in behind the wheel of his dark green Plymouth DeLuxe. More than enough time to reach the restaurant and negotiate with Rostov, he could drive at a leisurely pace for once. He eased out into heavy traffic, started fiddling with the knob on the radio and came to a stop at a red light.
From the back seat, a stern low voice said, "Don't panic, Stan. You're not in any danger."
"What the HELL?" Melnick yelped. "I know I looked back there. How'd you hide like that?"
"You can only see me if I want you to," said the voice. "You may have heard of me. Mark Drum?"
As the signal turned green, Melnick started rolling forward again. "Drum? Of course, everybody knows who you are. I honestly didn't think you were real. I figured you were just a folk tale. A boogey man to scare the bad guys."
"I have bad news for you. Very bad," Drum continued. "Don't bother to deny what I'm about to say. Your grandparents were Czech. You speak a little Czech. That's one reason why the Bureau picked you for your assignment. For the past six years, you have been a card-carrying member of the American Communist Party. Your ex-wife and former friends all hate you for it. Your cover job at the steel-working plant has been at risk. But what only a few people know is that you are reporting to the FBI everything you see and hear.. to the new Department 21 Black, in fact."
Melnick said nothing in response, driving forward without comment.
"Find a parking spot where you can read some papers," Drum said. "I know that tonight you're supposed to meet Alton Rostov for dinner. He's not going to show. I've decoyed him away. And you are going to have plenty to think about."
Near the corner of Hickory and First, Melnick pulled in directly under a streetlight. He turned off the powerful engine and twisted his head back to stare at his unexpected passenger just as Drum handed him a wide manila envelope.
Ten long minutes crawled by in silence. It wasn't until Stan Melnick placed the papers back into the envelope that Mark Drum spoke again, "You may know I worked with the OSS during the War, and G-2 Army Intelligence. I've had to deal with the new CIA. And now, I'm having to interact with the FBI's Department 21 Black. They all play a game that's dirty by its very nature. They've all sacrificed their own agents that same way the military has to send soldiers to their deaths."
Another minute passed before Melnick took a deep shuddering breath. "As God is my witness, I gave up everything. My family and my friends despise me. Everyone I know thinks I'm a dirty Red. And after all that.. after all that..."
"Your office is going to bring you up on espionage charges. They intend for you to spend the next ten years in a Federal prison. They're doing this to get an opening to the spymaster who runs your cell. They expect him to try to speak up for you and maybe offer legal aid." Drum made a disgusted sound. "Giving up a pawn to make a bishop expose himself, they're playing chess with human lives."
The interior of the car was silent for long uncomfortable minutes. Then, Melnick let out a resigned sigh. "You know, spies above a certain level make what we call a 'parachute.' It's usually like a duffel bag or suitcase full of cash, some IDs and passports, a nice business suit, usually a pistol and ammo. I've got mine stored in a pawn shop where the owner keeps it safe. I've always wanted to see Cancun."
"Well, I have done what I can by warning you," Drum said. He opened up the rear door of the car and paused to add, "Good luck."
IV.
Two days later, Drum awoke at dawn as usual. It was the last day he and Sonia would be staying at the Brock Arms Hotel and their packing was done but there would be phone calls to make before they headed to the airport. Pulling on a heavy gold-colored robe over flannel pajamas, he opened the suite door. Sensing no life activity nearby, he reached down to where a neatly folded copy of the WASHINGTON POST had been left for him.
Drum went back into the suite which was larger and more elegant than many apartments he had known as a young man. Some coffee would be welcome. The aroma would gently awaken Sonia too. He paused to glance over the headlines. Fighting in Korea was not going well. Some movie star had been arrested for drunk brawling. And then, low on the page, he saw a item about a local businessman dying in a tragic fall.
A cold jolt hit his chest. He turned to page three and there it was. Carl Melnick. His car had been found at a scenic bend on the road miles out in the country. Apparently he had gotten out to enjoy the scenery, had stepped over the low railing and fallen more than eighty feet to a rocky death.
Like Hell. Even during the war, Drum had seldom felt such overwhelming rage. Only with great self-control did he keep from bellowing out loud and smashing every object within reach. No. This was a time to be hard and deliberate. He folded the paper up again and went to start the chrome General Electric coffee maker. He had to come up with a plan.
From the doorway, Sonia emerged yawning. Her straight black hair reached down her back to the thick waist. She was not a beautiful woman, but her face showed so much kindness and warmth that people were drawn to her at once. >"Good morning my love,"< she said in Russian with her Georgian accent.
"Sonia, I have bad news. We must remain here another day, perhaps two. I am sorry."
She pulled out a chair at the small round table. "Do not apologize, Mark. I am so used to this. There is a fire you must put out. Someone is in danger or a bad person has turned up."
"Yes." Getting the bag of coffee grounds from a cabinet, he gave her as much of a smile as he could manage. "Several bad people."
V.
Just before dawn, a savage backhand slap across the face woke Mikhail Rostov. He struggled confusedly with the heavy blankets, caught his breath and sat up. For a full five seconds, his mind could not process the situation. His bedroom was flooded with pale blue light which shone from a tall figure at the foot of his bed.
"Drum...." breathed Rostov.
"It's no use calling for your guards," the Blue Guide told him. "They're enjoying a deep restful sleep right now."
The spymaster jabbed his hand up under his pillow for his handgun but then slumped down wearily. His head fell back. "What... have you done to me?"
"I have turned down your lifeforce as you might turn down a gas flame." Drum's voice had deadly calm finality to it. It was the voice of a judge giving the death sentence. "Right now, your heart has enough energy to beat. Your lungs draw in air. But make no mistake, you are close to dying."
"Wait. You must want something.. or I would be dead already.."
"You worked for the Red Blade. You know all about me, Rostov. You know I can snuff out your life no matter where you are, no matter how you try to hide."
Taking rapid shallow breaths, the Russian agent could barely manage to ask, "What do you want?"
"You are going to leave this country. Today. I don't care where you go. But if I sense your lifeforce here tomorrow night, I will turn it off. I swear it."
Feeling some of the weakness ease up, Rostov pressed a hand to his heaving chest. "I can't... SMERSH will find me..."
"Maybe. Stalin's executioners are certainly a threat. But I am a certainty." Mark Drum let the blue radiance ebb slightly as he stepped back. "You will sleep now. When you wake up, run for your life. I will be watching."
With that, the Blue Guide spun and stalked stiffly from the bedroom, past the snoring gunmen in the living room and out of the apartment into the darkened streets. This would rob those FBI weasels of their intended goal. Not being able to find Mikhail Rostov would be a huge disappointment to them and it would be a black mark against them that their superiors would long remember. At the very least, no promotions for them in the near future.
Striding down the deserted misty streets of Georgetown, Mark Drum felt no triumph. This action tonight did not make up for how badly Melnick had been mistreated after his loyal service. But it was all he manage. It would have to do.
9/11/2024
