International Code of Signals stand for the single word murderer. His dying message—JOKE—meant murderer E, or in the more specific language of the flag code, murderer Echo. ”
THE SPY AND THE CALENDAR NETWORK
O N THE MORNING AFTER the dead whale was washed ashore, Rand and Fowler got up early to take a look at it. They were dressed for warmth, because even in May the mornings were chilly along the beaches of Cornwall.
The whale itself was a gigantic sprawl that rested on its back half in and half out of the water. The spectacle had already attracted a number of townspeople, including three small boys who were running and climbing over the great carcass. It was almost white on the bottom, contrasting sharply with the dark gray of its back, and a number of deep ridges ran back from its gaping mouth along the creature’s underside.
“Big!” Fowler exclaimed as they came up to it.
“That it is,” Rand agreed. There was something majestic about the creature, even in death.
“You know, Rand, the Germans could have beached dead whales during the war with whole broadcasting transmitters inside them. Even rooms full of enemy agents—like in the Bible.”
“The Bible?”
“Jonah in the whale—remember?”
A bearded fisherman from the town came up to stand next to them. “Beautiful sight, isn’t she? You don’t often see them that big any more. I measured her this morning and she goes for thirty-seven feet.”
“What kind is it?” Rand asked.
“A humpback, female. Don’t often see them beached like this anymore. Probably a hundred barrels of oil inside her.”
Rand smiled slightly. “More valuable than a radio transmitter.”
“What?” the bearded man asked.
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”
“Goin’ to get my grandson to come down and look at it. Don’t often see them—”
Rand and Fowler moved away, avoiding the water where the children were splashing. “Look,” Fowler pointed out. “Barnacles on his bottom.”
“Her bottom,” Rand corrected. “Female.”
“Her bottom. But barnacles! She must be a hundred years old.”
“Barnacles can form fairly quickly, even on whales,” Rand observed! “And most whales never reach the age of forty.”
Fowler patted the damp, dead fur. “You know the oddest things, don’t you?”
“It’s my business now.”
They turned from the whale and retraced their footsteps through the damp sand. “How are things in Double-C, Rand? Anything like the old days?”
“Nothing like the old days, really. I have my own department now. “Concealed Communications is one of the more important arms of the intelligence establishment.”
Fowler grunted dejectedly. “And I’m wasting my life selling life insurance.”
“You had your moment of glory,” Rand reminded him.
Fowler kicked at a piece of driftwood. “Yes, we all did that, didn’t we? Our moment of glory.” They walked along in silence for a bit and then Fowler asked, “Do you think it was a mistake, Rand? Our holding this twentieth reunion?”
Rand looked at the short, balding man at his side. Fowler was ten years older and forty pounds heavier than Rand—a man now past fifty who would never know the excitement of the service again. A man living in the past—a past that hovered between insurance policies and visits with grandchildren. He was, in his own dull way, not much different from the bearded fisherman who had measured the whale. “No. No. I don’t think it was a mistake at all.”
Fowler squinted at the morning sun, watching a seagull’s progress as it skimmed over the crests of the waves. “You know, Rand, there are a lot of auks down this way. In the coves, mainly. A whole colony of them, I hear tell. It’s beautiful here along the beach, isn’t it? Golden sand—really golden!” Then, as if he hadn’t changed the subject at all, he said, “The Calendar Network. Twelve of us, Rand. And you’re the only one who stayed in intelligence work.”
“Well,” Rand
THE SPY AND THE CALENDAR NETWORK
O N THE MORNING AFTER the dead whale was washed ashore, Rand and Fowler got up early to take a look at it. They were dressed for warmth, because even in May the mornings were chilly along the beaches of Cornwall.
The whale itself was a gigantic sprawl that rested on its back half in and half out of the water. The spectacle had already attracted a number of townspeople, including three small boys who were running and climbing over the great carcass. It was almost white on the bottom, contrasting sharply with the dark gray of its back, and a number of deep ridges ran back from its gaping mouth along the creature’s underside.
“Big!” Fowler exclaimed as they came up to it.
“That it is,” Rand agreed. There was something majestic about the creature, even in death.
“You know, Rand, the Germans could have beached dead whales during the war with whole broadcasting transmitters inside them. Even rooms full of enemy agents—like in the Bible.”
“The Bible?”
“Jonah in the whale—remember?”
A bearded fisherman from the town came up to stand next to them. “Beautiful sight, isn’t she? You don’t often see them that big any more. I measured her this morning and she goes for thirty-seven feet.”
“What kind is it?” Rand asked.
“A humpback, female. Don’t often see them beached like this anymore. Probably a hundred barrels of oil inside her.”
Rand smiled slightly. “More valuable than a radio transmitter.”
“What?” the bearded man asked.
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”
“Goin’ to get my grandson to come down and look at it. Don’t often see them—”
Rand and Fowler moved away, avoiding the water where the children were splashing. “Look,” Fowler pointed out. “Barnacles on his bottom.”
“Her bottom,” Rand corrected. “Female.”
“Her bottom. But barnacles! She must be a hundred years old.”
“Barnacles can form fairly quickly, even on whales,” Rand observed! “And most whales never reach the age of forty.”
Fowler patted the damp, dead fur. “You know the oddest things, don’t you?”
“It’s my business now.”
They turned from the whale and retraced their footsteps through the damp sand. “How are things in Double-C, Rand? Anything like the old days?”
“Nothing like the old days, really. I have my own department now. “Concealed Communications is one of the more important arms of the intelligence establishment.”
Fowler grunted dejectedly. “And I’m wasting my life selling life insurance.”
“You had your moment of glory,” Rand reminded him.
Fowler kicked at a piece of driftwood. “Yes, we all did that, didn’t we? Our moment of glory.” They walked along in silence for a bit and then Fowler asked, “Do you think it was a mistake, Rand? Our holding this twentieth reunion?”
Rand looked at the short, balding man at his side. Fowler was ten years older and forty pounds heavier than Rand—a man now past fifty who would never know the excitement of the service again. A man living in the past—a past that hovered between insurance policies and visits with grandchildren. He was, in his own dull way, not much different from the bearded fisherman who had measured the whale. “No. No. I don’t think it was a mistake at all.”
Fowler squinted at the morning sun, watching a seagull’s progress as it skimmed over the crests of the waves. “You know, Rand, there are a lot of auks down this way. In the coves, mainly. A whole colony of them, I hear tell. It’s beautiful here along the beach, isn’t it? Golden sand—really golden!” Then, as if he hadn’t changed the subject at all, he said, “The Calendar Network. Twelve of us, Rand. And you’re the only one who stayed in intelligence work.”
“Well,” Rand
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