Author's notes (feel free to skip)
Royal® pudding: the powdered contents of a box of it were mixed with milk and heated to make pudding (or pie filling) One of the first things I learned to make as a child
Das Schloss: Kafka's The Castle, his final novel
KPSS: Kommunisticheskaya partiya Sovetskogo Soyuza or the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.
Steganography: the science (or art) of concealing writing
Microdot camera:
MIPT: Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology ( Московский Физико-Технический институт (государственный университет) Also known as the Russian MIT, it prepares specialists in theoretical and applied physics, applied mathematics, and related disciplines. It began as the Department of Physics and Technology within Moscow State University; this gave the Institute the nickname "Phystech"
Schillings: currency in Austria at the time of this story
Sidewalk in front of the Sutterfield Residence
April 2, 1969
Day -11,961
The team that searched our house for bugs that night found nothing… the other team that watched our neighborhood to see if the FBI was tailing our cars or had staked out our house also saw nothing… my parents were able to resume their Committee work about the time Dad ungrounded me from the radio… I never heard Alla on the 40-meter band again… and my parents never mentioned her… it really hurt to pack up the travel chess board I was using for our game—not only did I believe I could have won, but it was kind of like burying our friendship… sure, she was a girl, but I could talk to her about stuff other than chess… it was fascinating comparing our lives… so much of it was almost the same even though she was halfway around the world… I thought about throwing away her QSL card, but I couldn't get it to leave my fingers when I went to put it in the trash… instead, I took the Russian dictionary Mom had given me and looked up the word подруга—feminine for 'friend'—and I left it there as a bookmark….
Daniel's loss of a friend wasn't the only fallout from the FBI incident.
Mr. Lukin stopped coming by to visit us… I know Mom and Dad still talked to him on the phone, but the calls I overheard were all business… judging from Mom's face during those calls, he was on her dirt list… I miss his visits even if what he said about me was a little embarrassing… I really doubt I'm ever going to be famous… but it was neat to hear him say it….
The mailman was walking away from the Sutterfields' mailbox when Daniel arrived home from school that April day. He stopped his bike at the box to grab the letters inside it before riding around to the back door.
"Mom, I'm home," he called as soon as he was inside, "and I have the mail."
His mother's reply came up the stairs from the basement.
"Leave it on the counter and help yourself to last night's cobbler."
Daniel tossed the mail by the kitchen phone. He then put a double scoop of the apple pastry in a bowl because his mother wasn't there to catch him. After drenching his snack in milk, he headed for the table to eat it.
On his way past the scattered stack of mail, he noticed that an ivory-colored business envelope had the letters "D-a-n" written on it; what followed was obscured by an utility bill. Daniel pulled the letter from the pile.
It's addressed to me: black ballpoint pen in cursive… the return address is printed: Mustasaarihotelli, Palosaarentie 31, 65200 VAASA, Suomi… where the heck is that?
Daniel checked the postage stamps.
Wow—this came airmail… one stamp has a great drawing of a DC-3 flying over a winter landscape… and it reads both 'Suomi' and 'Finland…' I sure as heck don't know anyone in Finland, but Carl at Scouts will want the stamps….
His cobbler now forgotten, Daniel opened the envelope with a letter opener from the drawer by the phone. Inside was a sheet of stationery that matched the envelope and a black-and-white photo of a boy about Daniel's age; he had dark hair and was wearing a dark wool coat over a light knit pullover. Behind him was a glass door with the word "Mustasaarihotelli" painted on it.
No idea who he is… or why someone sent me his photo… maybe the letter explains it….
Daniel picked up the sheet of paper and read it.
20. March 1969
Dear Daniel,
I am happy you will be my pen pal. I am Ensio Koskinen and I live at the Mustasaari Hotel, which my father is the manager. My mother and my two older sisters live here also. I am eleven years of age and I am a Boy Scout like you. My patrol meets every week. When I am old enough for Sea Scouts, I will sail in the summers.
In school I am in forth year of basic school. My favorite classes are reading and languages. I am learning English and French. Do you know any languages that are not English? What is your patrol doing? Do you have Sea Scouts where you live?
I am excited to find out about you. Please write to me soon. Please send a photo also.
Regards,
Ensio
Daniel stared at the letter. It appeared perfectly normal except for its unexpected arrival.
Why does Ensio have my name and address?
Two possibilities came to mind:
Maybe this is a test—Mom and Dad wondering if I'll tell them about this letter because I didn't tell them about Alla's QSL card … but faking a penpal letter from Finland would be a lot of work… if Mom wanted to test me, she could have mailed a false letter locally… just in case, I'll mention this letter at dinner tonight… but maybe it isn't a test… maybe our den leader signed everyone up as penpals and forgot to tell us… or he announced it at that meeting I missed two weeks ago because I had a cold….
Daniel grabbed the phone and dialed the Bennetts' number. When Mrs. Bennett answered, he asked to speak with Pete.
She said they were about to leave for baseball practice… I promised to keep it short and not hold Pete up… when Pete got on the line, I asked him about penpals….
"Nope," Pete replied. "Mr. Parmenter didn't say anything about penpals and I hope he doesn't. I get enough letter-writing at Christmas and birthdays what with all the thank-you notes Mom has me wri—yes, Mom, I'm hanging up. Daniel, talk to you later."
Daniel cradled the handset.
Okay, so that's not it… but I really don't like the idea that Mom and Dad are testing me… even if I deserve it….
He looked again at the letter and its envelope.
Mom is so proud of her document work… if I can prove this letter is a fake, that should impress the heck out of her and Dad… and pay them back a little for testing me….
Daniel picked up his book bag and the letter and took both to his room. Once there, he placed the letter on his desk then he turned on his desk lamp.
First of all, this isn't the ivory-colored paper Mom keeps on-hand for her documents….
He used a ruler from his desk drawer to measure the sheet of paper.
Not quite eight and a half by eleven… it's too narrow and too tall… in millimeters, it's 210 by 297… that makes it a European size… it feels like twenty-eight pound bond… looks like it when I hold it up to the light… would Mom buy European paper just to fool me?
He shrugged at his question.
If it was important—heck, yes… Mom's a perfectionist….
Daniel next examined the envelope with a magnifying glass that had been a birthday gift the previous year.
20x magnification… I used it at day camp last summer… the pack that knew the most ways to start a fire won … our pack won… the ink in the post office cancellations looks like it should—ragged on the edges where the stamp picked up extra ink—Mom warned me never make my hand-drawn cancellations too smooth… I don't know enough about Finnish postage stamps to tell anything about the two here… they look like real stamps—security paper, glue on the back with even, machine-cut perforations… the return address is letterpress in a dark brown ink—I can see the indentations from the type used to make each letter… according to Mom, most business letterheads are offset printing—the ink is rolled on to the paper from a rubber surface that accepts the design from a printing plate… there is no pressing or stamping involved… faking letterpress or embossing can't be done with pen and ink… so Mom would have had to get a printer to produce one envelope and one sheet of paper just to fool me… an expensive thing to do….
Daniel then reached for the sheet of paper to check its letterhead.
It's the same font as on the envelope—not one I recognize… and it's the same ink and printing method….
Since there wasn't anything else he could discern from the letterhead, Daniel put his magnifying glass down so he could compare the handwriting on the letter and its envelope.
The same person addressed the envelope and wrote the letter… the pen ink is the same color and all the letters are formed the same … the letters aren't exactly like the cursive letters I was taught… but Mom would know if European cursive is different from American cursive… she would also know to make her writing look like a kid's and not a grown-up's… there's a hitch in the line joining the 'o' and the 'r' in 'forth'… like the writer almost wrote the 'u' that should be there, but changed his mind… would Mom be so thorough as to make it look like the writer hesitated before misspelling that word?
Daniel shrugged at that, too.
I'll have to ask… it's a handy trick to know if I ever have to fake a hand-written letter from someone who can't spell….
He picked up his glass to close more closely at the hitch.
There's a dot on top of that hesitation mark… it's black, but a different shade… and it's not a flaw in the paper… it's too round….
He shifted the paper to let the dot catch the light from his desk lamp.
The ink is dull, but the dot reflects the light… Dad told me about something like this….
Daniel put the letter on his desk and stared at the dot while he remembered.
Microdots, Dad called them… they're either made with a special camera or by photo-reduction—taking a photograph then photographing its negative then photographing the resulting negative until the final negative is the size of a period… spies during WWII glued them to letters and documents, and hid them inside things like hollow coins and secret compartments in jewelry… Dad said their one weakness was the material of the negative is shiny—like the dot I found….
He tried reading the dot with his magnifying glass.
No luck… I probably have to mount it on a slide and use Dad's microscope….
"Daniel?"
His mother's call made the boy jump.
"Yes, Mom?"
"Did you leave your cobbler on the kitch—"
Before she could finish, Daniel grabbed the letter and its envelope and dashed for the back stairs. When he reached the lower steps, he saw his mother cradling his snack bowl in her hands.
"Sorry, Mom," he said as he entered the kitchen. "I forgot to eat it."
Mrs. Sutterfield eyed the bowl of cobbler then she shifted her glare to him.
"You were hungry enough to take a huge helping, but not hungry enough to eat it? Daniel, I've been without food too many times in my life to be comfortable with you—"
Daniel cut off her standard lecture on food waste by holding out the envelope. His mother peered at it for a moment then she reached for it. As she did so, the boy took the bowl from her other hand.
"That came in the mail," he told her, "and I don't know who sent it to me."
Was it you?
He ate a spoonful of cobbler as his mother examined the envelope.
Checking the writing, the printing, the stamps, the feel of the paper… holding it up to the sunlight through the window… everything I did….
"Do you have the letter that was inside this?" she asked.
He handed her the sheet of paper.
"It's the same paper, same printing, same handwriting and ink," he told her, "and I found a microdot by the 'r' in 'forth.' Why would someone I don't know send me a secret message?"
He put his best "I have no idea" expression on his face and waited for her response.
Please say you don't know… don't say you were testing me….
Mrs. Sutterfield held the letter up to the sunlight, angling the paper so the light fell on the misspelled word.
"I do not know," she replied, each word enunciated carefully as she examined the tiny reflective dot. "I have not seen a microdot since before leaving Vienna. The Germans used them so often that counter-espionage services knew to check for them. The English called them 'duff' because they said the dots were scattered in German correspondence like raisins in plum duff."
Daniel paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth.
"What's plum duff," he asked, "and why isn't it called raisin duff if it has raisins in it?"
His mother raised an eyebrow at him.
"Curiosity," she replied, "is a good thing—when it isn't distracting you from the problem at hand."
Daniel finished his spoonful of cobbler…
I looked it up later… duff is a pudding—the baked kind, not the kind Royal makes… and in nineteenth-century England, plum was the catchall name for dried fruit… it's fascinating how words change over time and between countries….
… then he asked if he could remove the microdot and use his father's microscope to read it. His mother frowned as she considered her reply.
"Do you know how to do this?" she asked.
The boy shook his head.
"No, but it should be easy. All I have to do is—"
His mother's sudden fond smile made him swallow his explanation.
I get that smile when Mom thinks I'm being adorable… she really likes it when I get enthusiastic about Committee work….
"You want me to wait for Dad, right?"
Mrs. Sutterfield nodded.
"We can take the time to be careful," she told him. "Better to have your father show you the correct method than to rush when we don't have to hurry. I'll leave the letter here with the rest of the mail until he arrives home."
Daniel dawdled over his cobbler, but the hour and seventeen minutes between his final spoonful and the sound of his father's car in the driveway seemed slower than a snail's transit. The boy did his homework, his Russian lesson, and read two chapters of Das Schloss before he heard his father's station wagon pull into the driveway. Once inside, Mr. Sutterfield examined the letter and confirmed his son's assertion.
"Clara," he asked, "do we have time to look at this before we eat?"
Mrs. Sutterfield lowered the heat under the two saucepans on the stove.
"Now we do."
The three of them went into the basement, where Mr. Sutterfield turned on the lights for his workbench then the magnifying lamp mounted on the bench. Daniel was thrilled when his father asked him to get the microscope stored with his father's photographic equipment.
He said there was no time like the present for me to learn how to handle microdots... Dad echoed Mom's statement that they weren't used much anymore, but that's the best time to use something—when no one expects it...
Under his father's direction, Daniel set up the compound microscope and plugged in its cord, checking its bulb to make sure it worked. He then prepared a glass slide and cover.
Dad stores them so they don't pick up dust, but he made me clean them just in case...
While he was cleaning the slides, his mother brought the sprinkler bottle she used for her ironing to the workbench and set it by Daniel.
"A little water," his father said, "will lift the adhesive holding the microdot off the paper. Too much and you risk it floating away."
"There's distilled water in this bottle," his mother added. "It won't leave any residue on the microdot.
Daniel considered his next step.
I want just a drop or two... so I'd better be careful... then I need something to lift the dot to the slide when it's free...
"May I have an Exacto knife?" he asked.
His father opened a drawer and removed a cardboard case. Inside were a set of razor-bladed knives, one of which he held out for his son to take.
" Doctor Sutterfield, your scapel."
Daniel grinned at the title. Behind him, his mother giggled.
"You like that idea, Clara?" her husband asked.
When she nodded, he added, "Then we'd better start saving our schillings for medical school now."
The boy raised his eyebrows at his father's words.
Medical school? But I'm only in fifth grade... might be cool to be a doctor... research doctor anyway... I don't think I could cut into anyone...
A soft cough from his mother reminded the boy of the task before him. Daniel picked up the sprinkler bottle and held it over the floor, away from the bench. He then carefully released a drop of water onto the knife blade.
Now, to let it drip on the microdot... it won't hurt the negative, but it will dissove the glue... when it softens, I have to slide the blade under the dot... got it!
Daniel transferred the dot to the glass slide then he placed its cover over the dot.
"Good job, son," his father told him. "Now, put it under the lense and you can see what it says."
Daniel began to followed the directions, but a "Uhm" from his mother froze the boy with the slide partially clamped to the microscope's stage.
"Alan," she said, " you should look at it first. We don't know who sent it or why. Perhaps it's something Daniel shouldn't see."
Daniel saw his father frown then nod in agreement.
"You're right. Sorry, son. Get that slide clamped down and I'll take it from there."
Daniel secured the slide with its dot then he stepped back from the workbench.
Geez... I found it... I ought to get to read it first... Mom's being paranoid—no one would send secret information in a microdot and then forget to tell the recipient it was coming... which is pretty much the same thing Mom just said... so this could be a trick or a trap—maybe it's the FBI... but I'm still the one who found it...
He watched his father remove his glasses. He then lowered the microscope's tube until it almost touched the slide before he looked into the eyepieces. Mr. Sutterfield said nothing as he adjusted the focus or while he read the microdot. After ten very long seconds had passed, each of which Daniel silently counted, his father leaned back from his stance over the microscope. The frown on his face made Daniel's stomach knot.
"You'd better read this, Clara," he told his wife. "I'm not sure what to make of it."
His mother removed her glasses and laid them on the bench. To see into the eyepiece of the microscope meant her standing on tiptoe, one hand adjusting the focus, the other steadying herself on her husband's arm. Daniel gritted his teeth to keep from blurting out his concerns.
It's the FBI... they sent it to me... they figured that, if we weren't with the Committee, we'd never even think to look for secret messages... they're probably watching us right now—watching us prove we're—
His mother's heels hit the basement floor with a thunk. Unlike her husband, her expression as she reached for her glasses was more of a wry smile.
"You know something I don't?" Mr. Sutterfield asked her.
"Possibly," she replied. "Daniel, this message is meant for you."
The boy hesitated a moment, unsure of what to do until his father shoved a wooden stool toward him. Daniel climbed onto the stool and knelt before the microscope.
Take my glasses off... adjust the focus... make the words on the microdot legible... it's a hand-written letter... dated 15 March this year...
Dear Daniel,
My father told me our radio chess games have caused much trouble for you and your family.
The boy drew back from the eyepiece in shock.
It's Alla... it has to be Alla... she found a way to write me... a spy way to write me... wow... this is great...
He raised his head then turned to face his parents.
They're both smiling at me... although Dad's smile isn't as happy as Mom's is... maybe this isn't a good thing... I want it to be a good thing...
"Why are you looking at us?" his mother asked. "Someone went to a lot of work to get a letter to you. You should read it."At her urging, Daniel returned to the microscope.
I am very sorry about the FBI and your parents being angry with you. I asked my father if there was a way we could continue to be friends. He said that I would only cause you more troubles, but a few days later, he told me that he had a secure way to deliver letters to you. I know I did not tell you, but my father is an important man and very well thought of by the KPSS so I am certain you will receive this letter.
If you want to write me in return, I would like that very much. If you do decide to correspond with me, I promise to write back as many times as you write me. I am told you must reply with the same method my letter arrived to you.
If you want to continue our chess game, then my next move is Ne5. I hope you do. I very much enjoy playing with you. You are better than many of the students at our city's matches.
Please tell your parents I am sorry for the troubles I caused. I do not want them to be angry for us being friends.
Yours,
Alla
Daniel sank back on his heels after reading Alla's letter.
She wants to stay friends... she thinks I'm a good chess player... she wants me to write back...
"Can I write her back?," he asked as he twisted around to face his parents. " Can you show me how to make microdots? I can put it in my letter to Ensio and Alla will get it and—"
His mother said, "Of course you—" just as his father said, "We'll have to talk—"
Daniel's joy wilted as his father gave his wife a puzzled frown.
"Clara," he said, "letting Daniel write back is risky. If the FBI finds out—"
"They won't find out," Daniel blurted. "I'll be very care—"
The glares both parents gave him for interrupting cut off his sentence.
"As I was saying," Mr. Sutterfield continued, "it's a risk, especially since we can't control who knows about this or who was responsible for it. We don't know Admiral Molchanov or the contacts he used in Finland and—"
He paused to peer at his wife.
"And didn't you just say you might know something about this?"
Mrs. Sutterfield's sly smile drew the attention of both Daniel and his father. They watched as she squared her shoulders, her smile widening into a grin.
"I might," she admitted, "have told Paul Lukin how he had broken Daniel's heart and that, if he ever wanted to enjoy my hospitality—and my Kaiserschmarren—again, he must mend matters between our son and his friend."
Daniel immediately pictured his mother's signature dessert, sweetened egg pancakes chopped small and served with homemade plum butter.
That's one mean threat… last time he was here, Mr. Lukin ate two whole platefuls of them….
His father's laugh brought Daniel out of his thoughts.
"A threat impossible to ignore," he said between chuckles. "You sure know how to motivate, my dear."
Mr. Sutterfield then addressed his son.
"Daniel, if I can confirm Mr. Lukin put this in motion, then I'll feel better about letting you write Alla back. However, I am requiring you to spend as much time on your letter to that Finnish boy—what's his name?"
"Ensio," Daniel prompted.
"Right, Ensio. I don't want you acting like he's a means to an end even if he is one. It's always important to treat your assets well. A man will sell his soul without complaint and at a bargain-basement price if he's allowed to keep his dignity."
"Yes, sir," the boy replied. "I'll make sure my letters to Ensio are informative and friendly."
It's not like I'm going to turn down a chance to have two penpals… two more friends….
"Great," his father told him. "Now, turn off the light on the 'scope and leave everything where it is. All this spy stuff is making me hungry."
Mom and I both laughed at his joke then we went upstairs to eat… after dinner, Dad made a call to the service Mr. Lukin used for his messages… he called Dad back about the time I finished loading the dishwasher… Mr. Lukin confirmed what Mom said… Dad said he asked if it was okay for him to come for dinner next week… Mom told Dad it was, but she was going to let a couple visits pass before making Kaiserschmarren for him….
That evening, Mr. Sutterfield showed Daniel how to affix a microdot to paper by replacing Alla's message on Ensio's letter.
Dad said the reason for putting it back was in case the FBI knew about the microdot… with it back in place, I could claim I didn't know anything about it… it seemed like a lot of work, but Dad told me it always pays to be careful….
The next afternoon, Daniel wrote Alla. That evening, he wrote Ensio.
I told Alla I didn't get into too much trouble—I didn't want her to worry… I also told her about school and about my favorite things to eat because we had been discussing her favorite food during our last conversation… and I made my next move in our game—Bg3… I wrote Ensio about my Cub pack and the ceremony taking us into the Boy Scouts coming up in May… we don't have Sea Scouts here but we do a lot of camping… which isn't too awful… at least my friends like it… I also told him about school and bike-riding and the stuff I do with Pete….
With his father's help, the boy made copies of a photo taken of him a month earlier.
It was Mom's birthday… rather than go out, Dad and I fixed a fancy dinner and served Mom like our kitchen was a Michelin-rated restaurant… I was the maitre d' in my best black suit and tie… Mom insisted Dad take a picture of me because I looked so handsome… Dad joked that we both looked like penguins in glasses, but I think we looked sharp… I made one copy for Alla and one for Ensio….
Turning Alla's letter and the photo into microdots was more complicated than Daniel expected.
I should have known… Dad taught me all about exposure times and focal lengths… to do this correctly I had to position Alla's letter, set up the appropriate lighting, compute the correct distance between the letter and the lens on Dad's special microdot camera… and then I had to wait the ten minutes it took to make each exposure… it's nothing like TV spy shows—no wonder Mom and Dad laugh at them… the camera we used is no bigger than a coat button… it takes ten exposures… Dad had me use all ten to make certain I had the technique down pat… developing the film was a real pain, too… when it was finished, I had four great microdots of Alla's letter, three of my photo, and three so-so ones… not one exposure was garbage….
Daniel glued his microdots on periods at the end of the third and fifth sentences in his letter to Ensio.
I don't have letterhead so I used the notepaper I write my letters to Mrs. Wren on—I guess she's a penpal, too… I now have three friends I can write to… that is so cool….
Basement of the Sutterfield Residence
April 11, 1969
Day -11,954
Hours had passed since the Sutterfields had sat down to dinner with their guest, Paul Lukin. After the meal was eaten, the two men had headed downstairs to the darkroom, their work being interrupted only by Daniel's coming down to say "Good Night."
After he had hung the prints from the film Lukin had brought with him, Alan Sutterfield opened the refrigerator he used for film storage and beer.
"Want a cold one, Paul?" he asked.
"Don't mind if I do."
Alan grabbed two Falstaffs from the fridge then he handed one bottle to Lukin.
"Opener's on the wall behind you."
As soon as the beers were opened and the two men had settled onto their work stools again, Lukin noted that Alan's wife must still be angry with him.
"What makes you say that?" Alan asked.
"Clara served store-brand vanilla ice cream for dessert," Paul replied. "What's it take to get out of the dog house with her?"
Alan took a swig of beer then he chuckled.
"Time, usually. Give it a few years and Clara will forget how FBI agents sat at her kitchen table and questioned her son."
Lukin winced.
"You know I never meant for that to happen."
"Yeah, I know. Clara knows it, too, but she's fierce where Daniel's concerned."
Lukin raised his beer in a salute.
"Rightly so. That boy is special."
Alan matched the salute with his own bottle then he said, "I won't disagree."
"I only wish we'd found him sooner," Lukin said. "Capitalist notions are more thoroughly removed when the child is younger."
Alan waved Lukin's concern away with his free hand.
"There's nothing to worry about. Clara's got our son on a strict diet of solid Marxist reading—all of it in support of her language lessons just in case Daniel slips up about it—and it's working. He throws himself into our work, drinking it in like a human sponge, and he never forgets anything we teach him."
Lukin nodded as Alan continued to praise his son.
"Clara told me Daniel lied to those FBI agents like a pro—of course, she didn't know he was lying at the time. It was later before we learned how he had played them like a piano."
Alan paused to take another swig from his bottle then he said, "Paul, I can't say enough good about him. Our son is a natural."
"Which is why I hooked him up with Alla Molchanova," Paul told him. "Not only is her father well-connected, but both his father and his older brother are members of the Russian Academy of Science. They will be very helpful when Daniel applies to MIPT."
Alan grunted in protest.
" Clara," he noted, "has her heart set on Vienna's Technical Institute. Her brothers weren't able to finish their education thanks to the war so she wants Daniel to study there in their honor."
Lukin hid a sneer as he sipped his beer.
"Only the best get into Phystech," he said, using the Institute's nickname. "Not to say I'm worried about it, but, if Daniel makes it through the oral and written exams, the essay, and the interview, not only will it be a great honor for him, and you and Clara, but all his expenses will be paid. I doubt the Technische Universität Wien will be as generous."
Alan considered the possibility as he finished his beer.
"No, they won't," he admitted, "and I've been wondering how we were going to swing it financially."
"Then let me handle it," Lukin told him. "I'll work my contacts and get Daniel some solid backing in Moscow. You and Clara conitued to polish his Russian, teach him his history and doctrine, and let him follow that science bent of his. By the time he's sixteen and old enough for the exams, I've no doubt that Daniel will knock their socks off."