The Story of Henri Tod Read Free

months had gone by without seeing Rufus, to embrace him in the rather formal way in which grown men greet their fathers. Rufus instinctively resisted anything that suggested explicit affection, but a few years ago Blackford had said, “Rufus, I know it’s unlikely in our line of business that you would ever be awarded a Nobel Prize, but suppose that you were: What would you do when the King of Sweden, with a check for forty-five grand in his pocket, approached you with a royal embrace?”
    Rufus had replied only with his little half smile, saying nothing, as was his habit. Today, Blackford thought, Rufus almost reached the point of returning the embrace. Such was the impression Rufus gave when remaining motionless.
    Rufus’s notion of foreplay, Blackford thought, amusing himself; and said, “Great to see you, Rufus, you old superspy!”
    Rufus winced—but he had endured worse. When tortured by the Nazis, in the early days of the war. Before his legendary escape, and his rise to eminence in his profession as the intelligence officer Ike trusted most.
    Blackford had not seen Rufus since the funeral. Burying Rufus’s wife had been a complicated affair, the Director acquiescing in the arrangements only after Rufus had agreed that the ceremony would be held at a small church in the Virginia countryside whose identity and location the dozen men closest professionally to Rufus were advised of only late in the morning. They were ready to set out to wherever the funeral would be. If any Soviet agent was there to photograph a dozen top American intelligence operatives among the mourners, he’d have had to be one of their number. And, of course, no one was permitted whose identity as a member of the Agency was not already known to the others. Over the course of nine years in the Agency, if you’re involved in covert operations, Blackford reflected, you do get to recognize only about a dozen people.
    Rufus had tried determinedly to retire, but after his last return to duty, the year before, his wife had said to him that she doubted he would ever be able to say no to a special plea by the Director. The very next day Rufus had pointedly refused to meet with the Director, who had proposed driving out to the country “just for a little casual visit.” Proud of his determination, Rufus rushed out to the rose garden to tell his wife, who was lying on the lawn, rose shears in hand, dead from a heart attack. After the funeral, Rufus returned the Director’s call.
    â€œCome in, come in,” Rufus now said to Blacky, pointing to the door of the living room. Beside the fireplace sat a gentleman very tall and thin, his bony cheeks pallid, eyes gray and a little sad. He rose, to just more than Blackford’s six-foot-one-inch height, extending a long and tapered hand.
    â€œHowdyoudo, Oakes.”
    Rufus introduced Sir Basil Monk, and pointed to a chair. A clerk brought in tea, asking Rufus and Blackford whether they took milk or lemon. He did not need to ask his superior, who drank everything straight.
    Sir Basil sipped his tea and lit a cigarette. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he extended his cigarette case first to Rufus, then to Blackford, both of whom declined. “Habit I got into during the war. After the winter of ’43 we all agreed not to share our cigarettes. Too scarce. Got into the habit. You Americans never did, by the way.”
    â€œWe even share our secrets,” said Blackford, cheerfully. His reference was to the American code dispatcher from the Pentagon who, a few weeks ago, had been convicted of selling materials to Soviet agents. Sir Basil looked up.
    â€œRufus, you have spoken to Oakes here about our problem?”
    â€œBasil, I haven’t seen Blackford for a year.”
    â€œI see, I see. Very well, as my headmaster used to say, let us get into the business at hand in media res . Does the name George Blake mean anything to you?” He was