Carl Levitian
member
He wasn't anything special, just a inconspicous man in a grey suit. He got lost in a crowd almost instantly, both because he was so non-descript, and compact of stature. No more than 5' 7" in hight, and medium build, he was just one more Washington D.C. commuter on the trolly car.
And that was but one of his talents.
It was discovered early in his schooling, he was a natural mimic. When tought grade school French by a teacher who was from the northern coast of France, he spoke French with a strong Breton accent. In high school he learned German from a man who grew up in Berlin, so he had a Berliner accent. The young man had a talent of blending in anywhere.
When World War 2 broke out, he went and served his country in one of the intellegence outfits that set up shop in a large mannor house outside London. After the war, his agency moved to downtown Washinton D.C. Even though having a wife and two kids, he made many trips the other side of the iron curtain, retrieving or helping out a younger agent that was under his office. Becoming a section chief in the mid 50's did not quell his taste for a little adventure now and then.
One day at a party, someone took out a little pocket knife that got his attention. In that time and era, pocket knives were of a most conventional type, as was produced by companies like Case, Queen, Schrade, and Camillus to name just a few. This one was very different.
The grey man watched as the party guest slid out the little blade from the handle to open a package of paper plates for the hostess, then neatly slid the blade back into the frame handle. The government man asked what it was, and the next day did his homework.
After examining a few of them, he turned one over to his training officer who had a little gym in the basement of the building for refresher training. A grizzeled ex-first sargent, the trainer figured out the advantages of such a small knife. It was small enough to be totally concealed in the hand, and even small enough that the blade could be slid opened while still in a trouser pocket. Yet so small and innocent looking they could go through customs and checkpoints with no notice. 50 of them were ordered for the outfit, and the ex-paratrooper designed a training program centered around major motor tendons and arteries.
Once, a young agent asked why they were wasting time on such a small thing. The training officer walked over and stood in front of the young man.
"Have you ever seen a porcupine, son?" he asked.
"No sir, just in pictures."
"Would you grab one?" the training officer asked.
"Of course not, I don't want a quill through my hand!"
"Well son, we're teaching you to be like that porcupine, and hurt whoever grabs you so you can run like hell. This little knife can be a very distracting thing if you pay attention here, and learn to use it. Otherwise, you just may end up down some basement getting your fingernails manicured with a pair of pliers. UNDERSTAND?"
"Yes sir!" replied young Mr. Cosgrove.
Two years later, in 1957, young Mr. Cosgrove was on the wrong side of the checkpoint with an important slip of paper wrapped around the filler of his ball point pen. He was trying to cross back over, but checking his tail twice, he saw the same man in the black trench coat. A state security man. "Oh God," he thought, "Why do they all wear the same black coats, do they think we're that dumb?"
He took a turn down an alley, and walking slowly he could hear footsteps behind him. His right hand moved to his pants pocket. It was early evening and the alley was in deep shadow.
"Halt! Stay right there, do not move!" came the command.
Slowly Cosgrove turned around, and the man in the black coat was advancing on him. Large, football player build, confident smirk on his lips.
"Good, you like alleys, so we have a quiet place I can ask you some questions." the security man said. As he spoke his right hand slid into his coat pocket, and Cosgrove could see the bulge of a gun muzzle under the material, and Cosgrove felt the butterflys of fear in his stomach.
"Give me your papers now!" demanded the security man, "We must find out who you are, and why you're here."
"I..I'm a buyer for a wood products company," Cosgrove stuttered, seemingly terrified, " I haven't done anything against the law."
Cosgrove had taken off his hat, and seeming nervous wiped his brow with his left hand holding the hat. Then suddenly flicked the hat off to the left and the man in the black coat, for just an instant glanced that way, then relizing his mistake turned his attention back to cosgrove. It was too late.
Cosgrove had lashed out with the open Christy knife, catching the security man just under the angle of his jaw, and slashing down at an angle. The injured man staggered back against the wall of the alley, holding his slashed throat, blood spurting out between clutching fingers. Desperatly, he tried to pull out the .32 Walther from his coat pocket, but didn't seem to have any strength suddenly. Slowly, he slid down the wall to a seated position, eyes loosing focus, then toppling over to the dirty pavement.
Cosgrove ran like hell.
Making his way to the other end of the alley, he lost no time getting to the check point. He made it through, and was just walking away to safty in the west, the undulating sirens came wailing with black sedans pulling up at the check point, closing it down. Now on the other side, Cosgrove kept walking.
Much later, after passing on the information that had almost cost his life, he sat in a booth at a quiet bar, sipping a cold beer, and looking at the now cleaned up little knife in his hand. It again seemed so insignificant. So small. The he thought of the tall training officer.
"I'll never under estimate little things again." he thought.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The above is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is a coincidence.
And that was but one of his talents.
It was discovered early in his schooling, he was a natural mimic. When tought grade school French by a teacher who was from the northern coast of France, he spoke French with a strong Breton accent. In high school he learned German from a man who grew up in Berlin, so he had a Berliner accent. The young man had a talent of blending in anywhere.
When World War 2 broke out, he went and served his country in one of the intellegence outfits that set up shop in a large mannor house outside London. After the war, his agency moved to downtown Washinton D.C. Even though having a wife and two kids, he made many trips the other side of the iron curtain, retrieving or helping out a younger agent that was under his office. Becoming a section chief in the mid 50's did not quell his taste for a little adventure now and then.
One day at a party, someone took out a little pocket knife that got his attention. In that time and era, pocket knives were of a most conventional type, as was produced by companies like Case, Queen, Schrade, and Camillus to name just a few. This one was very different.
The grey man watched as the party guest slid out the little blade from the handle to open a package of paper plates for the hostess, then neatly slid the blade back into the frame handle. The government man asked what it was, and the next day did his homework.
After examining a few of them, he turned one over to his training officer who had a little gym in the basement of the building for refresher training. A grizzeled ex-first sargent, the trainer figured out the advantages of such a small knife. It was small enough to be totally concealed in the hand, and even small enough that the blade could be slid opened while still in a trouser pocket. Yet so small and innocent looking they could go through customs and checkpoints with no notice. 50 of them were ordered for the outfit, and the ex-paratrooper designed a training program centered around major motor tendons and arteries.
Once, a young agent asked why they were wasting time on such a small thing. The training officer walked over and stood in front of the young man.
"Have you ever seen a porcupine, son?" he asked.
"No sir, just in pictures."
"Would you grab one?" the training officer asked.
"Of course not, I don't want a quill through my hand!"
"Well son, we're teaching you to be like that porcupine, and hurt whoever grabs you so you can run like hell. This little knife can be a very distracting thing if you pay attention here, and learn to use it. Otherwise, you just may end up down some basement getting your fingernails manicured with a pair of pliers. UNDERSTAND?"
"Yes sir!" replied young Mr. Cosgrove.
Two years later, in 1957, young Mr. Cosgrove was on the wrong side of the checkpoint with an important slip of paper wrapped around the filler of his ball point pen. He was trying to cross back over, but checking his tail twice, he saw the same man in the black trench coat. A state security man. "Oh God," he thought, "Why do they all wear the same black coats, do they think we're that dumb?"
He took a turn down an alley, and walking slowly he could hear footsteps behind him. His right hand moved to his pants pocket. It was early evening and the alley was in deep shadow.
"Halt! Stay right there, do not move!" came the command.
Slowly Cosgrove turned around, and the man in the black coat was advancing on him. Large, football player build, confident smirk on his lips.
"Good, you like alleys, so we have a quiet place I can ask you some questions." the security man said. As he spoke his right hand slid into his coat pocket, and Cosgrove could see the bulge of a gun muzzle under the material, and Cosgrove felt the butterflys of fear in his stomach.
"Give me your papers now!" demanded the security man, "We must find out who you are, and why you're here."
"I..I'm a buyer for a wood products company," Cosgrove stuttered, seemingly terrified, " I haven't done anything against the law."
Cosgrove had taken off his hat, and seeming nervous wiped his brow with his left hand holding the hat. Then suddenly flicked the hat off to the left and the man in the black coat, for just an instant glanced that way, then relizing his mistake turned his attention back to cosgrove. It was too late.
Cosgrove had lashed out with the open Christy knife, catching the security man just under the angle of his jaw, and slashing down at an angle. The injured man staggered back against the wall of the alley, holding his slashed throat, blood spurting out between clutching fingers. Desperatly, he tried to pull out the .32 Walther from his coat pocket, but didn't seem to have any strength suddenly. Slowly, he slid down the wall to a seated position, eyes loosing focus, then toppling over to the dirty pavement.
Cosgrove ran like hell.
Making his way to the other end of the alley, he lost no time getting to the check point. He made it through, and was just walking away to safty in the west, the undulating sirens came wailing with black sedans pulling up at the check point, closing it down. Now on the other side, Cosgrove kept walking.
Much later, after passing on the information that had almost cost his life, he sat in a booth at a quiet bar, sipping a cold beer, and looking at the now cleaned up little knife in his hand. It again seemed so insignificant. So small. The he thought of the tall training officer.
"I'll never under estimate little things again." he thought.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The above is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is a coincidence.
Last edited:
