Petrograd, Russia
December 1916
Sidney Reilly knocked on the door of the nondescript apartment in the heart of Petrograd. The apartment served as a safe house for western agents, and Reilly frequently used it as a meeting place for his many paramours around town. A bare-chested Stephen Morrison opened the door, bathed in sweat from exercising. He invited the British agent to enter.
“You certainly look fit, Double Eagle! One would never guess that you are recently out of a prison camp.”
“The exercise and the discipline are what got me through it,” Morrison replied with a straight face. “Let me get a towel. Have a seat.” As Reilly pulled up a chair and sat down, Morrison picked up a towel and dried himself off. “You said you got the information from America. Well, let’s hear it.” He pulled up the other chair from the small kitchen table and sat facing his former partner.
Mansfield Cumming had conveyed the information to him that the Americans had sent. The information would not help the situation. Helen Morrison had remarried after four years and remained happily married. She and her husband had two children. Both Cumming and Reilly agreed that this news should be kept from Morrison. Better to eliminate this awkward circumstance from affecting their agent’s concentration. Instead, they concocted a different story that would be shocking, but also provide a form of closure.
Reilly cleared his throat and began in a quiet voice. “Stephen, some of the news I have is not very good. I’m sorry to be the one to bring it to you.” Morrison knew when Reilly called him Stephen, the news would be ominous. “I have information about your wife, Helen,” Reilly continued. “She had a long grieving period after your funeral. By the way, you were buried with honors at Arlington National Cemetery in Washington, D. C. Everyone was told that you died in a shipyard industrial accident or something like that. Anyway, your wife never remarried. She never stopped mourning you.”
“Jesus,” sighed Morrison, feeling pangs of sorrow within himself.
“Stephen, I’ve got worse news for you. After a while, she was institutionalized for severe depression. After several months she seemed herself again, but — ”
“But what? What?”
Reilly looked Morrison in the eye and spoke. “She committed suicide in the winter of 1909. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this news. I know this will not be much of a consolation, but she is buried next to your burial site at Arlington National Cemetery. Please, Stephen, accept my condolences.” He noted the stunned expression on Morrison’s face as Morrison just stared directly at him.
His eyes started to glaze over. His breathing increased slightly, and to Reilly he appeared to be trying to control his emotions. “It’s all right, Stephen, to grieve and — ”
Morrison stood up and in a loud voice spat out, “Screw you, Reilly! Screw your British Secret Service, screw this shithole country Russia, screw the Bolsheviks, screw the Tsar — screw you all!”
“I understand, but — ”
“You understand nothing!” He began to pace back and forth across the room, and Reilly could see the tears streaming down his face. Meanwhile, Reilly got up and walked over to a kitchen cabinet where his liquor was stashed. Finding a bottle of vodka, he poured two glasses, walked over to Morrison, and handed him one. After several minutes of pacing back and forth, Morrison finally sat down in his chair facing Reilly. “What else did you find out?” he asked.
Reilly could sense that his former partner had calmed down a bit and absorbed the terrible blow that the initial news dealt him. I may as well deliver some more news that will likely set him off again, thought Reilly. “The Americans also think it would be a good idea if you worked for me, as I had suggested to you earlier. They concur that you should penetrate Lenin’s inner circle and spy for us. This service would be invaluable for all of the Allies. Once your mission is adjudged complete, you will be taken out of Russia, and we will have you sent home to the United States. Of course, you can’t go back as Stephen Morrison. They would create a new identity for you. It’s really that simple. You would report to me and Mansfield Cumming, head of the MI6, our secret intelligence service. We will supply you with money and communications materials, as well as contacts.”
“That sounds just great!” Morrison replied sarcastically.
“Stephen, I was told to remind you that you are still an officer in the United States Navy and that these directions should be construed as direct, lawful orders. These are orders from your superior officers. In fact, I have a paper copy of these orders to give to you.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out several papers and handed them to Morrison. “Of course we will burn them after you’ve read them. Oh, by the way, congratulations! You’ve been promoted in your absence, twice in fact. You are now a lieutenant commander and all of your back pay has been deposited into a secure bank account in Washington, D.C.”
Morrison snatched the orders from Reilly and began to read. They began, “To: Lieutenant Commander Stephen L. Morrison, USN”, and corroborated what Reilly had told him. He was ordered to infiltrate Lenin’s inner circle and spy for the Allied powers. After he finished reading them, he threw them back at Reilly. Reilly produced a match from his pocket and lit it.
Holding the match to Morrison’s orders, he watched the papers go up in flames. “So, Stephen, it appears that Double Eagle has come out of retirement. Once again, we’re partners. Trust me, this time our collaboration will produce much benefit for the Allied cause.” He poured them each more vodka and asked, “When can you make contact with the Bolsheviks?”
“My contact is named Constantin. He gave me an address here in St. Petersburg, excuse me, Petrograd. I can go to that address anytime.” Drinking his vodka, he said, “You know, Sidney Reilly, you’ve got a valuable and dangerous agent on your hands. An agent who is famous for leading mutinies and for killing. One who doesn’t give a damn if he lives or dies.”
Reilly smiled as he reached into his billfold and produced a roll of rubles and handed them to Morrison. “Anytime you need funds, let me know. They come from a bottomless well as far as your mission is concerned.” As he walked to the door, he turned and said, “I really am looking forward to working with you again, Double Eagle! Oh, by the way, did you hear the good news?”
“What news?”
“They murdered that dog Rasputin earlier this week. They just fished his body out of the Neva River. Apparently, some royal cousins of the imperial family had finally had enough of his destructive influence over the Tsar and killed him. That may just help us in our goals. Anyhow, have a good day, Double Eagle!”
As the door closed, Morrison mused over what had just transpired.
I am now an American agent again, one with a vital mission. However, this time it’s different. I am no longer the mission-driven patriot I was years ago. No longer am I a cynical outsider, trying his best to further the interests of the United States and be accepted for my accomplishments. This time it’s very different. This time I’m blackmailed into the mission. This time I have absolutely nothing to lose. And this time, I am much better prepared. This time, I am a cold-blooded killer.