began, and then stopped. Ahead, someone was running toward them from the hotel. Running, tripping, along the beach. “It’s Amy,” he said, puzzled.
Amy Sargent was almost 40, but she still ran like a girl in her teens. It had been well worth the trip to Cornwall for Rand to see her again after all these years. “Come quickly!” she shouted when she was close enough.
“What is it?” Rand called back, but his voice barely carried above the surf. “What is it?” he yelled again.
She reached them finally, out of breath. “Mr. Maass—something’s happened to him!”
Karl Maass—the only German among them. Rand sucked in his breath. “What do you mean?”
“He’s dead!”
Rand and Fowler followed her at a trot, reaching the big old beachfront hotel seconds ahead of her. The others were upstairs, standing in the doorway of Karl’s room. They seemed confused and uncertain, as if waiting for Rand to take the lead. He went in, bent briefly over the body, then straightened up somberly.
“He’s dead, all right. Murdered.”
It had all started in Berlin a long time ago, during those days of airlifts and increasing tensions when networks of agents operated almost insolently in high places both in the Russian and Western sectors of the divided city. Berlin was different in those days before the wall had scarred it forever. Movement between sectors was accomplished with a minimum of difficulty, and the intrigues of the late 1940s were everywhere in evidence.
It was the late Colonel Brantly-Stowe of British Intelligence who had put together the Calendar Network in those dangerous years. Its function was complex, but its mission was simple—to learn as much as possible about German scientists working for the Russians, especially those Germans who had been active under Hitler in the development of chemical and biological weapons.
There were nine persons recruited for the network, functioning in West Berlin and points east. With Brantly-Stowe and his two young clerks back in London, that brought the total number to twelve. The two young clerks were Rand and Miss Sargent.
Originally, each of the twelve was to be designated, for communication purposes, by a sign of the zodiac. But then it was discovered that the standard British code books contained number groups for the months of the year, but none for the signs of the zodiac. To save the trouble of encoding each letter of each person’s name separately, or adopting a special code, the designations for the twelve had been changed to the months of the year, and the Calendar Network was born. “A little like Chesterton’s book, The Man Who Was Thursday, ” Brantly-Stowe had remarked at the time.
But their functioning had been short-lived, and the network was disbanded suddenly less than two years after it was born. Nearly all twelve had drifted into other lines of work, with only Rand going on to make a career of intelligence work.
Brantly-Stowe, who had been January, died of a heart attack in 1955. George Fowler, senior member of the network in West Berlin, was February; he had gone into life insurance. March was a man named Gregor, who had been killed by the East Germans shortly after the network disbanded. April was Bruno Norman, a giant of a man who now ran an import-export business in Liverpool. May was Sir Kenneth Kellman, a retired gentleman with distinguished white hair. June was Karl Maass, the only German in the network, and by far the most successful at gathering information during its brief lifetime.
There were three women in the network: Amy Sargent; Elizabeth Smith, who was July and who later had married George Fowler; and Miss Robinson, who was August and who now lived with her husband and family in New York City. September had been a sickly Frenchman named Ourson—he had died of lung cancer in 1961. October was a man named Carruthers, who had dropped out of sight after the network disbanded. Rand had been November, and Miss Sargent, the
Amy Sargent was almost 40, but she still ran like a girl in her teens. It had been well worth the trip to Cornwall for Rand to see her again after all these years. “Come quickly!” she shouted when she was close enough.
“What is it?” Rand called back, but his voice barely carried above the surf. “What is it?” he yelled again.
She reached them finally, out of breath. “Mr. Maass—something’s happened to him!”
Karl Maass—the only German among them. Rand sucked in his breath. “What do you mean?”
“He’s dead!”
Rand and Fowler followed her at a trot, reaching the big old beachfront hotel seconds ahead of her. The others were upstairs, standing in the doorway of Karl’s room. They seemed confused and uncertain, as if waiting for Rand to take the lead. He went in, bent briefly over the body, then straightened up somberly.
“He’s dead, all right. Murdered.”
It had all started in Berlin a long time ago, during those days of airlifts and increasing tensions when networks of agents operated almost insolently in high places both in the Russian and Western sectors of the divided city. Berlin was different in those days before the wall had scarred it forever. Movement between sectors was accomplished with a minimum of difficulty, and the intrigues of the late 1940s were everywhere in evidence.
It was the late Colonel Brantly-Stowe of British Intelligence who had put together the Calendar Network in those dangerous years. Its function was complex, but its mission was simple—to learn as much as possible about German scientists working for the Russians, especially those Germans who had been active under Hitler in the development of chemical and biological weapons.
There were nine persons recruited for the network, functioning in West Berlin and points east. With Brantly-Stowe and his two young clerks back in London, that brought the total number to twelve. The two young clerks were Rand and Miss Sargent.
Originally, each of the twelve was to be designated, for communication purposes, by a sign of the zodiac. But then it was discovered that the standard British code books contained number groups for the months of the year, but none for the signs of the zodiac. To save the trouble of encoding each letter of each person’s name separately, or adopting a special code, the designations for the twelve had been changed to the months of the year, and the Calendar Network was born. “A little like Chesterton’s book, The Man Who Was Thursday, ” Brantly-Stowe had remarked at the time.
But their functioning had been short-lived, and the network was disbanded suddenly less than two years after it was born. Nearly all twelve had drifted into other lines of work, with only Rand going on to make a career of intelligence work.
Brantly-Stowe, who had been January, died of a heart attack in 1955. George Fowler, senior member of the network in West Berlin, was February; he had gone into life insurance. March was a man named Gregor, who had been killed by the East Germans shortly after the network disbanded. April was Bruno Norman, a giant of a man who now ran an import-export business in Liverpool. May was Sir Kenneth Kellman, a retired gentleman with distinguished white hair. June was Karl Maass, the only German in the network, and by far the most successful at gathering information during its brief lifetime.
There were three women in the network: Amy Sargent; Elizabeth Smith, who was July and who later had married George Fowler; and Miss Robinson, who was August and who now lived with her husband and family in New York City. September had been a sickly Frenchman named Ourson—he had died of lung cancer in 1961. October was a man named Carruthers, who had dropped out of sight after the network disbanded. Rand had been November, and Miss Sargent, the
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