![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
"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."
( the rest of the story )
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."
( the rest of the story )
