1.1 Spies On Both Sides

"Take these blueprints down to the general's office," said Major Ivan Gorbachowsky to an enlisted private. The private took the manila envelope, saluted, and left. Sighing, Ivan collapsed into his chair. Little did the private and everyone else know that another set of the blueprints would soon be heading to the US embassy in Moscow.

Ivan Gorbachowsky was a spy. His real name was Henry Grawsby, born in Richmond, Virginia. He had joined the Air Force when he was 23, and quickly rose through the ranks. When he was 27, he accepted an offer to join the CIA. His superior officer quickly spotted the young man as a potential spy. His best qualities - cautious, smart, meticulous, and quick- witted( were perfect for being a spy. In addition, Henry was bilingual; he could speak Russian very fluently.

After his training, Henry assumed the name of Ivan Gorbachowsky and joined the Russian army. He quickly was promoted to chief engineer. After 2 years, Henry/Ivan was summoned to a Russian military center near Moscow, about 8 miles away. There, Ivan spent his days studying and correcting blueprints that other engineers brought to him. Ivan also made copies of the corrected blueprints and sent them to the US embassy in Moscow. His contact, whose code name was Panther, met him on the first and third Saturday of each month. The contact would give instructions a few days before to confirm the meeting and to specify the meeting's place and time on a note delivered to under his doormat from an anonymous address. Of course, no note meant no meeting.

However, Ivan started to suspect that there were starting to be leaks in the CIA. Perhaps a mole, or a bribed agent. However, each time he sent something to the embassy, he increased the amount of evidence pointing to him. There were more and more Jeeps tailing him every time he met with the Panther. Innocent- looking people kept on walking past him and staring at him as if they knew. Ivan was not so sure that they were innocent civilians. The Russian counter- intelligence agency may be tracking his every move already; trying to figure out a pattern, waiting for him to make a wrong move, waiting to catch him red-handed. He would have to me much more cautious now, covering every trail he left. If the leaks grew too large, he would have to be extracted.

At the CIA headquarters...

Matthew Jalend sat at his computer console at sub- level C inside the CIA headquarters, typing away in an e-mail to a friend in Russia. Actually, he was not really typing to a friend, but to an agent of the Russia intelligence agency. Jalend was a spy for Russia. He had heard about an American spy in Russia from one of his colleagues and was reporting to his "real superior". Director Fontaine did not know that he had a mole in his agency, and Jalend wanted to keep it that way. Jalend had been a spy for a much longer time than Ivan had. He was more cunning and more experienced at recognizing traps and getting out of them. Jalend was a tall man but was a bit skinny and underweight. However, his arms were extremely powerful and he was strong.

After finishing the e-mail, Jalend stood up, typed in his 5-digit screen lock code, and exited the secure computer compound into the underground parking lot. He got into a sleek blue American-made sports car and put away his files that he had pulled up on the spy in the glove compartment. Then he left and locked the car, back upstairs to the cafeteria. After the workday, he returned to his car and checked the folder to see the files again. Then he gasped: the files were gone. He searched frantically for it under the dashboard, under the passenger seat. Where could it have gone? Unless someone found out that he was a spy. No. No. It couldn't be! Jalend' s world spun out of focus, as he forced himself to think about the possible whereabouts of his files. Could he have forgotten it and hadn't really put it in the glove compartment? No. He remembered clearly putting it inside. So, where was it?

Somewhere else in the headquarters, Carl Simpson sat at his own desk, poring over what the Jalend had wanted. There were many transcripts on a specific person in Russia. Why would Jalend want files on a spy in Russia? Suddenly the truth dawned on him, and the frightening realization hit him like a bullet train moving at full speed. Jalend was a Russian SPY! He HAD to get to the director!

Jalend wandered throughout the building, searching for his folder. Suddenly, he saw Simpson turn the corner, stare at him bug-eyed, then turned heel and raced back around the corner. Jalend' s eyes caught something yellow in his hand: the folder. He knew that he had to get it back or his cover was blown. He was not about to waste twenty years of hard work just because some person stumbled onto the truth. He raced after Simpson, thankful that the halls were empty at this time. Simpson turned several corners, in an effort to get away, but it would not be. Jalend caught him on the stairs, lifted him up, and threw him down between the railings.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHH!" screamed Simpson as he fell past each flight of stairs and landed with a sickening crunch on the bottom.

Jalend calmly walked down the stairs and dragged Simpson's bloody, dislocated body parts into a broom closet. Then he left.