Spy and the Thief Read Online Free Page B

first.
    It was January in London, and the weather was not good. A three-day fog had all but paralyzed air travel, and even on the ground there seemed to be a slow uncertainty about life. Even in his usually cozy office overlooking the Thames, Rand could feel the chill winter dampness. The weather depressed him, and the man across the desk did nothing to brighten his spirits.
    “Rand, are you familiar with the island of Buhadi?” Colonel Nelson liked to open conversations with a question, a habit that may have lingered since his early days as a rural schoolmaster.
    “Indian Ocean, isn’t it? We granted their independence a year or so ago?”
    “That’s the place. It’s always been an oddity, a mixture of races and national interests—Indians, Africans, British, and even some Chinese. Could be a bigger problem than Cyprus if not handled right. Anyway, the Buhadi government’s been pretty much in a state of chaos lately. Two opposing rebel chiefs are claiming authority, and we know the Communists are in there with both feet.”
    “What’s our interest, Colonel?” Rand asked. He never cared much for political background, and he was waiting for Colonel Nelson to get to the point.
    The Colonel lit one of his familiar cigars. “We have an agent there—at least, we did have until he was killed last Monday. A minister chap named Montgomery. He started working for us after his wife and child were killed on the island. Every Monday morning he reported by cable, using one of our combination ciphers.
    “Anyway, he’d uncovered evidence linking one of the rebel leaders with the Chinese Reds, and he was to send us the man’s name last Monday. Somehow they found out, and stabbed him to death in an alley. Of course they went through his pockets and took the cablegram he was going to send, along with his notebook and wallet. But they missed this, or else didn’t think it was important.”
    Colonel Nelson passed over a folded piece of paper. On the outside were the letters” C.C. Rand felt his pulse quicken. The particular branch of British Intelligence of which he was the head was known to insiders as Double-C, from its official designation of Concealed Communications. “How’d you get this?” he asked.
    “Our embassy man found it on the body and forwarded it to us in a diplomatic pouch.”
    Rand unfolded the paper and read the eight words written on it. Father come our art in is earth bread.
    “What do you make of it?” Colonel Nelson asked.
    “Looks like a code or cipher of some sort.”
    “Especially since he addressed it to your department.”
    “He knew about Double-C?”
    “All our agents are told of it.”
    “You think he wrote this message just before they killed him?”
    “I’m sure of it. We’ve checked the handwriting, and even compared the ink with that in a ballpoint pen found on his body. There’s no doubt he wrote it.”
    Rand was busy doodling the more obvious possibilities on his pad. Father come our art in is earth bread. First letters: F-c-o-a-i-i-e-b. Nothing. Last letters: r-e-r-t-n-s-h-d. Nothing.
    Rand put down his pencil and said, “I don’t think it’s one of our standard ciphers. Is it anything your people use?”
    “No.”
    “And yet he must have expected us to read it. What about those rebel leaders you mentioned? Who are they?”
    “Well, there’s Rama Blade. His father was British and his mother was Indian—both parents are dead now. He came to the island from India just after the war, and almost immediately started organizing the poorer classes. He had the idea we’d leave him in charge after we pulled out, but when we didn’t he took to the hills with a couple of hundred followers. The people like him. We’d always considered him our friend until last year.”
    “And the other man?”
    “Blade’s bitter enemy—a fellow of vague nationality named Xavier Starkada. He was the first to accuse Blade of being a Red Chinese spy. Starkada is a giant of a man, almost seven