The Game of X: A Novel of Upmanship Espionage Read Free

success and believing, for the moment, that nothing was beyond his grasp. One word from him and phantom armies marched, and men of blood shuddered at their advance.
    In a kindly voice he had said to Karinovsky, “Our Mr. Nye took you in, did he?”
    “I used to consider myself a judge of men,” Karinovsky said. “And I could have sworn that this man was a nothing—a nonentity—a thoroughly negligible person, and surely not a professional.”
    “Nye’s always been good at giving that impression,” Baker said. “It’s one of his little specialties.”
    “If what you tell me is true,” Karinovsky said, “then the man is a formidable operative. But of course, you planned out the details of this operation yourself?”
    Baker thought about the long months of dull routine, the superb coordination of his team of agents, and his own brilliance in producing a scheme tailored for Karinovsky and none other. He wanted to tell Karinovsky about it. But he didn’t. He sacrificed a moment of petty gloating in the interests of his new illusion.
    “I wish I had planned it,” Baker said. “But the truth is, I disapproved of the plan from the start. I didn’t think it would work. But Nye overruled me. And, as usual, he was right.”
    Baker had smiled bitterly. “One cannot argue with success, can one?”
    “No,” Karinovsky had agreed, “one cannot.” He sighed deeply.
     
    And that was that. We opened a second bottle of champagne and drank a toast to success. George asked me how it felt to be an ultra-special agent, and I told him it felt fine, which it did. Colonel Baker, musing pleasurably on his invention, said that he had always wanted to create his very own operative. The real ones were barely able to find their way home in the dark. He told me several amusing stories to illustrate the point.
    We parted soon after that. I had a plain white envelope in my pocket. It contained five hundred dollars, which I considered a very adequate reward for a day’s work.
    It had been a pleasant affair. Of course, I assumed at the time that that was the end of it.
     
     

 
    2
     
     
    The next few weeks were an inconclusive sort of time for me. I tended bar (illegally) for several weekends in a boîte near the Place des Vosges. I loafed and invited my soul on the banks of the Seine, also on the Île Saint-Louis, also in the gloomy little garden behind Saint-Germain-des-Prés. I discovered a cache of Air-War pulps in a bookstore on the Rue de la Huchette, read voraciously, and considered doing an essay on the Age of Aerial Innocence. But I didn’t. Instead I applied for a job as consulting editor of a new French science-fiction magazine, was accepted, and then saw the whole thing fall through when the prospective publisher ran out of money.
    Thus, my position was essentially unchanged when I received a call from George about six weeks after l’affaire Karinovsky. It seemed that Colonel Baker wanted to see me. I went at once. Our last transaction had been more than satisfactory. I don’t know what secret agents normally earn; but, at Baker’s rates, I was definitely interested in continuing my new career.
    The Colonel came to the point at once. “It’s about that fellow you brought in last month,” he said.
    I thought it very decent of the Colonel to phrase it that way.
    “What about him?” I asked.
    “He wants to come over.”
    “That’s a surprising development,” I said.
    “Not particularly. Karinovsky is a professional. As such, he is likely to change sides when offered the proper inducement.”
    “I see,” I said.
    “You probably understood,” Baker told me, “that I came to an arrangement with Karinovsky last month. I wanted certain information, which he supplied. This, of course, gave me a further hold over him. After that, I wanted more information. And more, and more. I was insatiable.” He smiled a nasty little smile. “It put Karinovsky into the position of a double agent; potentially, a very