Agents of Treachery Read online

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  Agents of Treachery

  Spy Stories

  Edited By Otto Penzler

  Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

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  Contents

  introduction

  Otto Penzler

  the end of the string

  Charles McCarry

  section 7(a) (operational)

  Lee Child

  destiny city

  James Grady

  neighbors

  Joseph Finder

  east of suez, west of charing cross road

  John Lawton

  father’s day

  John Weisman

  casey at the bat

  Stephen Hunter

  max is calling

  Gayle Lynds

  the interrogator

  David Morrell

  sleeping with my assassin

  Andrew Klavan

  the hamburg redemption

  Robert Wilson

  the courier

  Dan Fesperman

  hedged in

  Stella Rimington

  you know what’s going on

  Olen Steinhauer

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  INTRODUCTION

  Otto Penzler

  The international thriller is one of the most successful literary genres in the world, its primary practitioners becoming household names, insofar as any author’s level of fame can compete with an entertainer, sports figure, or world-class criminal. Ian Fleming, John le Carré, Graham Greene, Lee Child, Nelson DeMille, Frederick Forsyth, Robert Ludlum, Ken Follett, and Eric Ambler, among many others, are familiar to readers around the world. It will come as little surprise to learn that for many years, one of every four novels sold in the United States fell into the espionage or international adventure category.

  What may come as a surprise, if not an outright shock, is that there never has been, until now, a collection of original stories devoted to this highly respected and challenging genre. There have been a modest number of collections by individual authors largely devoted to what used to be called cloak-and-dagger stories. Fleming’s For Your Eyes Only contained five James Bond adventures; Peter O’Donnell’s Cobra Trap collected Modesty Blaise stories; E. Phillips Oppenheim, the hugely popular thriller writer who wrote prolifically between the two world wars (as well as before) produced numerous collections. There are a few other volumes, mostly obscure, and quite a few mixed collections by such writers as Greene, Ambler, John Buchan, H. C. McNeile, and Forsyth, in which a small number of spy stories are surrounded by other types of fiction.

  The number of important authors in this very large genre who have never written even a single short story is legion. Ludlum never wrote one, nor did Dan Brown, Tom Clancy, Follett, Alan Furst, Robert Littell, Daniel Silva, W. E. B. Griffin, Thomas Gifford, or Trevanian.

  The few anthologies devoted to spy and thriller stories are all reprint collections, jostling for the right to reprint le Carré’s lone spy story and several familiar tales along with some obscure (though often very good) narratives. Alan Furst’s excellent anthology, The Book of Spies, is devoted to excerpts from novels.

  One could reasonably wonder why this scarcity of short fiction by otherwise often prolific authors persists, and the explanation is simple. Short stories set in the complex world of international espionage and adventure are very, very difficult to write. A disproportionate number of novels in that category, you will have noticed, are big, fat books. Although they are seldom leisurely, they are nonetheless longer than most novels. Establishing characters and places, creating plots within plots within plots, arranging treachery and duplicity in a credible fashion within the political alliances and betrayals of the time, all take subtlety and explanation—and a lot of pages. To attempt to contain all these disparate but necessary elements in a story of twenty or thirty pages is a challenge few can manage. What often captivates the reader of this compelling fiction is not the outcome of whatever the struggle has been. We know World War II will break out. We know de Gaulle will not be assassinated. We know Hitler will not be killed by German officers. What is terrifically engaging is watching the principal characters struggle with the moral compromises they are forced to make through fear or accommodation.

  Every story you are about to read, to a greater or lesser degree, deals with these issues. Some adopt a fundamental theology of right and wrong, home country versus enemy state, while others assume the philosophical position of much contemporary espionage fiction, filled with ambiguity and relativism. One country’s traitor is another’s hero, a duplicitous lying swine to one organization is viewed as a stalwart figure of brilliance and courage by another. There is a broad spectrum of political and philosophical ideology represented on these pages, but it is rarely overt or obvious. The single quality that the contributors to this unique collection share is an ability to tell a complex story in a simple manner. I once asked Eric Ambler what he regarded as the most difficult element of writing the kind of novels he wrote, and he said, “to make it simple.” Mr. Ambler, I believe, would have approved of the stories collected here by these distinguished authors, a veritable who’s who of today’s most highly regarded thriller writers, as well as the most widely read.

  In a relatively brief time, Lee Child has established himself as one of the best-selling thriller writers in the world. His novels about Jack Reacher, the powerful giant of a man who fearlessly behaves heroically, consistently achieve the number-one spot on the best-seller list of The New York Times and are equally successful in Great Britain.

  Dan Fesperman has had a distinguished career as a journalist, covering events in thirty countries, beginning with the first Gulf War in 1991. The (British) Crime Writers’ Association named Lie in the Dark the best first novel of 1999 and The Small Boat of Great Sorrows the best thriller of 2003; USA Today named The Prisoner of Guantanamo the best thriller of 2006.

  The first career choice of Joseph Finder was to be a spy and he was even recruited by the CIA but quickly deduced that life in the bureaucratic world was less exciting than it was portrayed in fiction. His first novel, The Moscow Club, was named one of the ten greatest espionage novels of all time by Publishers Weekly. “Neighbors” is his first short story.

  One of the half dozen most famous espionage novels of all time is James Grady’s Six Days of the Condor, successfully filmed with Robert Redford as Three Days of the Condor. Working as an investigative reporter for syndicated columnist Jack Anderson and for Senator Lee Metcalf helped provide the background information that makes his fiction so realistic.

  As one of America’s most distinguished film critics, Stephen Hunter won a Pulitzer Prize in 2003, but he is even better known for his best-selling, intricately plotted thrillers, especially those about macho Vietnam veteran sniper Bob Lee Swagger, known as “The Nailer.” The first Swagger novel, Point of Impact, was filmed in 2007 as Shooter, starring Mark Wahlberg.

  The controversial Andrew Klavan writes blogs and op-ed pieces at a prodigious rate, but it is crime fiction, notably such novels as Don’t Say a Word, which was later filmed starring Michael Douglas, and True Crime, directed by and starring Clint Eastwood, that has put him atop the best-seller lists around the world. His first politically incorrect thriller was Empire of Lies.

  Although John Lawton’s Chief Inspector Troy works for Scotland Yard, he mainly finds himself caught up in international intrigue. His first case, Black Out, won the WHSmith Fresh Talent Award. A Little White Death was a 2007 New York Times Notable Book. London’s Daily Telegraph’s “50 Crime Writers to Read Before You Die” included Lawton, one of only six living English writers on the list.

  A member of the U.S. Association for Intelligence Officers, Gayle Lynds is
a cofounder (with David Morrell) of the International Thriller Writers. Among her best sellers are Masquerade, named one of the ten best spy novels of all time by Publishers Weekly; Mosaic, picked as the thriller of the year by Romantic Times; and three volumes in the Covert-One series coauthored with Robert Ludlum.

  After serving in deep cover with the CIA for a decade, Charles McCarry was a speechwriter for the Eisenhower administration before becoming an editor-at-large for National Geographic. He has often been described as the greatest American writer of espionage fiction, producing such poetic masterpieces as The Tears of Autumn, The Secret Lovers, and The Last Supper, all featuring his hero, Paul Christopher.

  Although he has published more than thirty books, had David Morrell stopped writing after his first novel, his legacy would have been assured. First Blood introduced Rambo, who in books and Sylvester Stallone films has become one of the iconic American adventure heroes. Morrell also wrote The Brotherhood of the Rose, upon which NBC based what became the most-watched miniseries in history.

  After more than three decades in all three branches of the British Secret Service (MI5)—counterespionage, countersubversion, and counterterrorism—Stella Rimington was named the first female Director-General of the agency, serving from 1992 to 1996; she was made a Dame Commander of Order of the Bath (DCB) the year she retired. Upon stepping down, she wrote a candid memoir, Open Secret, followed by five espionage novels.

  Olen Steinhauer’s first novel, The Bridge of Sighs, began a five-book thriller series chronicling Eastern Europe during the Cold War, a decade at a time until the fall of communism. It was nominated for five mystery awards, including an Edgar, as was his fourth book, Liberation Movements. The film rights to The Tourist, his first nonseries novel, were acquired by George Clooney, who plans to star in the motion picture.

  One of the rare authors who has been on the New York Times best-seller list for fiction and nonfiction, John Weisman cowrote Rogue Warrior, the real-life story of the navy’s elite counterterrorism unit of the SEALS and its commander, which was on the list for eight months, four weeks in the top spot. Five fictional sequels made the list. His books have twice been the subject of Mike Wallace episodes of 60 Minutes.

  Portugal’s neutrality in World War II is the background for Robert Wilson’s A Small Death in Lisbon, which won the (British) Crime Writers’ Association Gold Dagger as the best novel of 1999, and his spy thriller The Company of Strangers. He was nominated for another Gold Dagger for the first of four Javier Falcon novels set in Spain, The Blind Man of Seville.

  The assignment given to the contributors to this unique collection was deceptively straightforward and simple: Write an international espionage or thriller story and set it anyplace in the world you like, in any era. No subject was forbidden, no word length specified, no political position denied, no philosophy advanced or hindered. The wide range of styles and focus contained herein will attest to the fact that the men and women who labored over these stories and produced such masterly tales accepted the invitation in the proper spirit.

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  THE END OF THE STRING

  Charles McCarry

  I first noticed the man I will call Benjamin in the bar of the Independence Hotel in Ndala. He sat alone, drinking orange soda, no ice. He was tall and burly—knotty biceps, huge hands. His short-sleeved white shirt and khaki pants were as crisp as a uniform. Instead of the usual third-world Omega or Rolex, he wore a cheap plastic Japanese watch on his right wrist. No rings, no gold, no sunglasses. I did not recognize the tribal tattoos on his cheeks. He spoke to no one, looked at no one. He himself might as well have been invisible as far as the rest of the customers were concerned. No one spoke to him or offered to buy him a drink or asked him any questions. He seemed poised to leap off his bar stool and kill something at a moments notice.

  He was the only person in the bar I did not already know by sight. In those days, more than half a century ago, when an American was a rare bird along the Guinea coast, you got to know everyone in your hotel bar pretty quickly. I was standing at the bar, my back to Benjamin, but I could see him in the mirror. He was watching me. I surmised that he was gathering information rather than sizing me up for robbery or some other dark purpose.

  I called the barman, put a ten-shilling note on the bar, and asked him to mix a pink gin using actual Beefeater’s. He laughed merrily as he pocketed the money and swirled the bitters in the glass. When I looked in the mirror again, Benjamin was gone. How a man his size could get up and leave without being reflected in the mirror I do not know, but somehow he managed it. I did not dismiss him from my thoughts, he was too memorable for that, but I didn’t dwell on the episode either. I could not, however, shake the feeling that I had been subjected to a professional appraisal. For an operative under deep cover, that is always an uncomfortable experience, especially if you have the feeling, as I did, that the man who is giving you the once-over is a professional who is doing a job that he has done many times before.

  I had come to Ndala to debrief an agent. He missed the first two meetings, but there is nothing unusual about that even if you’re not in Africa. On the third try, he showed up close to the appointed hour at the appointed place: two a.m. on an unpaved street in which hundreds of people, all of them sound asleep, lay side by side. It was a moonless night. No electric light, no lantern or candle, even, burned for at least a mile in any direction. I could not see the sleepers, but I could feel their presence and hear them exhale and inhale. The agent, a member of parliament, had nothing to tell me apart from his usual bagful of pointless gossip. I gave him his money anyway, and he signed for it with a thumbprint by the light of my pocket torch. As I walked away I heard him ripping open his envelope and counting banknotes in the dark.

  I had not walked far when a car turned into the street with headlights blazing. The sleepers awoke and popped up one after another as if choreographed by Busby Berkeley. The member of parliament had vanished. No doubt he had simply lain down with the others, and two of the wide-open eyes and one of the broad smiles I saw dwindling into the darkness belonged to him.

  The car stopped. I kept walking toward it, and when I was beside it, the driver, who was a police constable, leaped out and shone a flashlight in my face. He said, “Please get in, master.” The British had been gone from this country for only a short time, and the locals still addressed white men by the title preferred by their former colonial rulers. The old etiquette survived in English, French, and Portuguese in most of the thirty-two African countries that had become independent in a period of two and a half years—less time than it took Stanley to find Livingstone.

  I said, “Get in? What for?”

  “This is not a good place for you, master.”

  My rescuer was impeccably turned out in British tropical kit—blue service cap, bush jacket with sergeant’s chevrons on the shoulder boards, voluminous khaki shorts, blue woolen knee socks, gleaming oxfords, black Sam Browne belt. A truncheon dangling from the belt seemed to be his only weapon. I climbed into the backseat. The sergeant got behind the wheel, and using the rearview mirror rather than looking behind him, backed out of the street at breathtaking speed. I kept my eyes on the windshield, expecting him to plow into the sleepers at any moment. They themselves seemed unconcerned, and as the headlights swept over them they lay down one after the other with the same precise timing as before.

  The sergeant drove at high speed through backstreets, nearly every one of them another open-air dormitory. Our destination, as it turned out, was the Equator Club, Ndala’s most popular nightclub. This structure was really just a fenced-in space, open to the sky. Inside, a band played highlife, a kind of hypercalypso, so loudly that you had the illusion that the music was visible as it rose into the pitch-black night.

  The music was even louder. The air was the temperature of blood. The odors of sweat and spilled beer were sharp and strong. Guttering candles created a substitute for light. Silhouettes danced
on the hard dirt floor, cigarettes glowed. The sensation was something like being digested by a tyrannosaurus rex.

  Benjamin, alone again, sat at another small table. He was drinking orange soda again. He, too, wore a uniform. Though made of finer cloth, it was a duplicate of the sergeant’s, except that he was equipped with a swagger stick instead of a baton and the badge on his shoulder boards displayed the wreath, crossed batons, and crown of a chief constable. Benjamin, it appeared, was the head of the national police. He made a gesture of welcome. I sat down. A waiter placed a pink gin with ice before me with such efficiency, and was so neatly dressed, that I supposed he was a constable, too, but undercover. I lifted my glass to Benjamin and sipped my drink.

  Benjamin said, “Are you a naval person?”

  I said, “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Pink gin is the traditional drink of the royal navy.”

  “Not rum?”

  “Rum is for the crew.”

  I had difficulty suppressing a grin. Our exchange of words sounded so much like a recognition code used by spies that I wondered if that’s what it really was. Had Benjamin got the wrong American? He did not seem the type to make such an elementary mistake. He looked down on me—even while seated he was at least a head taller than I was—and said, “Welcome to my country, Mr. Brown. I have been waiting for you to come here again, because I believe that you and I can work together.”