Birds!

 

Some birds came today.  One Bluejay came to see if there were peanuts or corn.  None were available so I got a dirty look from the fence.  The Juncos came to investigate the suet feeder, to scratch around in the new snow, and poke their beaks in the birdbath.




 


The Mourning Doves flew in for a drink and flutter.  A Downy Woodpecker came too but I couldn't get to the camera in time.


All I did the rest of the day was have a chiropractor appointment, go to the grocery where two of the three boxes of chocolate pudding were leaking.  *sigh*  One leaked on the conveyor at the grocery so the cashier tossed it and the other one I tossed at home.  I contemplated going back but it was on sale for a buck so I let it go.  And this evening I got to go to my first Knitting Guild board meeting.  Busy busy busy.

02 December--Barbara Malcolm, Spies Don't Retire. 

     George looked up from the close-typed page in his hand and out over the wind-whipped waves in front of him.  “Why do I care about a nearly ten year old suicide?”  He read on.

    

     “In the course of reviewing old case files, new eyes have examined these facts and we are interested in ascertaining what, if any, involvement Roskova had in the matter.  Cognizant of the fact that he was a very effective operative for the KGB, we are convinced that he used his not inconsiderable charm to obtain the above-mentioned formulae and diagrams.

     In view of the fact that the Army researchers are still laboring to develop an anti-gravity propulsion system and have discerned hints from their opposite numbers in Russia that they too are near to perfecting a similar system, we would like you to insinuate yourself in Roskova’s confidence and determine whether he did indeed use his position and Ms. Shoreham’s infatuation with him and all things Russian to steal this information.

     Roskova’s long-time handler, Alexei Smatanof defected to America one year after the theft of the data but seems unaware of it.  He claims that so much information came from those under him over his career that it is impossible for him to remember each one.

     We would appreciate your immediate action in this matter.  We anticipate hearing from you soonest.  This is a matter of national security.

     If you are discovered during the pursuit of this matter, we will, of course, disallow all…

“Blah, blah, blah,” George said as he came to the end of the page.  “You’d think they wrote the script for that old Mission: Impossible series on American television.  I always expected letters like this to be signed Mr. Phelps.”

He laughed at himself, a hollow laugh, knowing there was no way he could refuse this assignment and regretting already the loss of the trust and friendship he and Dimitri had built in a few short months.  He also wondered if Dimitri had received a similar letter from his old handlers and what he planned to do with it.

Realizing how long he had been sitting there and anticipating probing questions from Sonia concerning his extended absence, George started his car and turned toward home,  a very different man from the one who left it so lightheartedly just that morning.  He felt the noose of responsibility tighten around his neck, just as he had every other time he was given a new mission, but this time rather than anticipation and even excitement he felt sick and tired, and very, very old.

Tomorrow the cleaning lady comes and then I plan to go to the Y.  Maybe I'll work a circuit on the machines and then take a walk on a treadmill.  I'll walk for sure.  It was sunny all day today.  Ahh.
--Barbara