The Kremlin File

I had just gotten back from Greenland, where the Russian fishing fleet had been quietly building a submarine base in territory where they had no business to be. The base had mysteriously blown up, a nice accomplishment on my part, considering that none of the Ruskies had dreamed I was within five thousand miles.

I was tired. I was looking forward to a couple of weeks of innocent ice fishing in northern Michigan while my blood was still conditioned to cold weather. Instead Hawk shoved a newspaper across his desk, caughed, and said, “N3, what does that mean to you?”

I could have answered before I read the headline — trouble. The screamer didn’t disappoint me.

GENERAL ABLE HAMMOND KILLED IN AIR CRASH

I don’t suppose one out of a hundred thousand Americans could identify Hammond. You had to have taken a Caribbean cruise that put in at Grand LaClare Island. The general had been dictator there.

The island had a long and troubled history. First settled by the Spanish, it had fallen into French hands and then been taken over by the British. The population was 90 percent black, descendants of the slaves brought from Africa to work the sugar plantations and the rich forests. In an election ten years ago, the islanders had voted to break with the British Empire and establish their own republic, with Dr. Randolph Fleming as the first president.

Fleming was the most competent and by far the most popular man on Grand LaClare. He reformed the government and became a true father of his country. Then he was overthrown. He hadn’t kowtowed to the military, and they had rebelled. General Hammond had led the coup, and Fleming had run for his life, seeking asylum in the States. Hammond took over. As the military always does he rode roughshod over the people and bled the country dry. Now Hammond was dead, whether by design or accident did not matter. He left a vacuum. Anybody who had shown traces of leadership had been jailed or had disappeared, and I was afraid I knew who our diplomats had in mind to lend a helping hand over there.

Hawk growled out a warning. “We have information that the Russians are preparing to move in missles. Everything is being done very quietly, you understand, and that’s why we have to move undercover too.

“To divert us, Cuba’s been making noises about ‘helping out’ its needy neighbor on Grand LaClare. But we know the Soviets are pulling the strings and the purpose of the ‘aid’ is to install Red missiles. So this operation is going into the Kremlin file.”

David Hawk drummed on the edge of his desk with blunt fingertips and told me serenely, “It’s a one-man operation, N3. Our government doesn’t want another Cuban-invasion deal. It’s your job to get Randolph Fleming back to Grand LaClare as quickly as possible.”

I didn’t think their army would sit still for that and said so.

“It’s up to you, N3, to see they do. You’ll have to anchor Fleming solidly in the presidential palace. And you’ll have to do it without letting anyone know this country had a hand in the matter.”

I let my sarcasm show. “I’m used to being shot at, knifed, poisoned, threatened in every way you can name, but I never discovered a way to make myself invisible. Will you please tell me how?”

There are a lot of things I am good at, but ruffling David Hawk is not one of them. He is unflappable. He didn’t even smile.

“It’s been taken care of already. Fortunately, Fleming and Tom Sawyer are old, close friends.”

“I like Huck Finn better, but how does Mark Twain’s book help me?”

Hawk doesn’t appreciate flippancy and he told me sourly, “Thomas Sawyer. You may have heard he is president of the Sawyer hotel chain, now the largest such organization in the world.

“Three years ago Sawyer made a deal with General Hammond. He was given a two-square-mile plot of land along the beach on which he built a luxury hotel featuring a casino to cater to the free-spending tourists. It’s been a bonanza for both Sawyer and the General.

“Obviously, the Sawyer interests are very much opposed to a communist government coming into power. They would nationalize Sawyer’s holdings as one of their acts. So you can see why Tom Sawyer is willing, I’d say anxious, to foot the bill for our operation in return for Fleming’s promise that Sawyer’s business will be safe. Fleming has already given his word.”

I nodded. To use a hackneyed phrase, politics makes strange bedfellows. Fleming, the patriot, with Sawyer, the ruthless wheeler-dealer. And I was going to have to make the best and most of it. I left the dingy office thinking ill of the world.

The Sawyer New Yorker was typical of chain-operated hotels: a small lobby surrounded by expensive shops. There was one difference in this place, a private elevator that serviced the penthouse only.