Lately, there are two new visitors in the afternoon, and both of them attract your attention – but for different reasons. The handsome, well-dressed man always arrives first. He has a slow, dizzying smile, which he dazzles you with before taking his place on the bench next to you. His voice is low-pitched and quiet, like a motor on an expensive town car. He occasionally leans your way and comments on how nice you look today, or makes small talk about the weather or the morning news shows. He leisurely eats his lunch, never finishing more than a few bites, then saunters away, casting his leftovers into the trash can — carefully folded in its brown paper wrapper. You watch him until he disappears from sight, barely breathing, already longing for tomorrow and your next encounter with him on the bench.

You don’t leave yet, though. Your curiosity glues you to your seat. You wait. Wondering if the same thing will happen again today.

It’s not long before you have your answer. 

Ten minutes later, a scruffy-looking woman appears, dressed in the rags of the city’s homeless. She slowly makes her way along the winding path, gradually drawing nearer to your spot on the bench. She passes by, smelling of expensive lotions and perfume. The scent always surprises you. It’s so unexpected. She pauses at the trashcan, rifles through its contents, and straightens, holding the brown paper wrapper. She stuffs it into her oversized pockets and then disappears back into the park.

You suspect something is going on, but for the life of you, you can’t figure out what it is.

What it is, is a drop, and our two spies are using a very low-tech means of communicating… invisible ink.

A Pentel Rollerball is one tool used for invisible writing. You can buy it almost anywhere in the world. Our spy uses one. He writes his message on a piece of paper, then presses it against the brown paper wrapper. The ink dries almost immediately, and the message paper looks completely blank. The transferred message will later be developed by our second visitor to the park, and the secret message will no longer be so secret.

(Oh, by the way, if you’re a man, feel free to go back and change the sex of these visitors.)

There are older methods of invisible writing. Most people know that you can take a toothpick, dip it in lemon juice and then write an invisible message to someone. An iron, gently ran over the paper, will reveal what you wrote.

Most of us are familiar with the high-tech gadgets of James Bond… his deadly Aston Martin; his miniature helicopter with built in machine guns, rocket launchers, and heat seeking missiles; his high speed boat equipped with hang glider for that tricky getaway; and, of course, his exploding briefcases. But spies have long relied upon low tech gadgets as well — such as the invisible ink or the cats eyes I talked about previously. Explosive booby traps also come to mind. Such traps have been used extensively in special ops. And a carefully arranged cigarette, match, piece of string, and a timing fuse is one of the oldest methods employed by special forces and guerrilla soldiers for constructing a delayed fuse.

Kaylea Cross mentioned in one of her posts to me during this Latte Limelight, that she used to spend quite a bit of time in Washtington DC looking on the ground for crushed chalk. She had read a book that said spies sometimes marked a drop location, or signaled that a meeting was on, with crushed chalk. I wrote back and told her that her comment made me think of Aldrich Ames. He used to leave a chalk mark on his mailbox. It was a prearranged signal, and it meant that he had top-secret documents to pass on. He would then deliver them to a prearranged drop location.

This is my last post here, and I hope you’ve enjoyed this time we’ve spent together. I’ve certainly enjoyed it, and I’ve really appreciated all the visitors and comments. My spies were happy to make silly mistakes to attract your attention – not something spies would normally do, of course – but these fictional accounts were meant to entertain, and I hope they did that. I will be blogging more about spycraft in the days ahead at my own blog. (It will be a few days, though, before I post new material.) I hope you will join me over there then. Here’s the link: http://www.dlynnkennedy.blogspot.com

And if you’d like to spend more time in the company of spies, let me recommend my new novel, Sleeping With Skeletons. You can find out more informtaion on that at my website. You might also like some of the additional posts that I’ve written below. Thanks again! I appreciate the time you took to join me as I blogged about my new novel and the art of spying.

Here’s the link for my site:

http://www.doralynn.net

I’m working on another Spycraft post, and I will be putting that up shortly. In the meantime, maybe you’d like to check out my interview with Karenne. You can find that here:  

http://coffeetimeromance.com/LatteLimelight/DoralynnKennedy.html

Well, I’ll wrap this up and get back to work on my next post.

See you soon!

http://www.doralynn.net

But other than one small child, no one else has ever set foot inside the old man’s home.

Rumors swirl around him like falling leaves in the autumn. One tale bearer claims the hermit is all alone in the world. His family was killed in some tragic accident. Another gossiper weaves a gruesome tale of a serial killer who escaped from prison and was never brought to justice. Perhaps it’s him. Wild tales are concocted at dinner parties and spread around the table like jams and jellies.

Just the month before, the elderly gentleman bought a poodle at the mall and brought it home with him. Now he spends more time outside, walking his dog into the woods that border one side of his property. Shortly after that, a strange car began prowling the streets at night.

Now the boy who spent an afternoon at the old man’s house watches from his third-floor bedroom with fascination. The car comes late at night, headlights off, and parks in the dark. A bulky shape emerges, enters the woods and disappears from sight. Eventually, the mysterious visitor reemerges — carrying a small parcel — settles back into his car and slowly drives away into the night.

The boy keeps his observations to himself. He likes the old man with the houseful of computers, TV screens, and radio equipment. And he can keep a secret. 

You have probably guessed by now that the old man is a spy, and the boy has witnessed something he was never meant to see.

Around 1970, as the conflict in Vietnam escalated, United States military intelligence (and no, that is not an oxymoron) developed a homing device camouflaged as dog or monkey droppings. It was actually a homing device officially known as a T-1151 Radio Transmitter, and unofficially it was known as a Doo Radio Transmitter.

This unique little spy gadget could send or receive radio messages, usually by Morse code. It was positioned throughout the jungles of Vietnam, relentlessly transmitting a radio signal that led aircraft to enemy ground locations for strikes or reconnaissance missions.

Because the device looked like… well… poop, it was usually left undisturbed. Therefore it could be planted well in advance of any mission.

It is still in use today, as our elderly neighbor could verify… that is, if he were talking.

If you’d like to spend more time in the company of spies, let me recommend my new novel, Sleeping With Skeletons. You can find out more informtaion on that at my website. You might also like some of the additional posts that I’ve written below. Thanks!

Here’s the link for my site:

http://www.doralynn.net

The road narrows even more and drops abruptly. Now you’re driving over loose gravel, surrounded by abandoned cornfields, and storm clouds are moving in. This is not someplace you want to break down, and it’s definitely not someplace you want to get stuck either. The first fat splashes of rain hit your windshield and lightning streaks the sky. A sudden thuderous crash nearly sends your head through the roof as you jump, and the storm lets loose with a torrential downpour. Your heart is hammering in your chest like the work of a deranged blacksmith.

You round a sharp bend and two green eyes peer at you from the side of the road. You brake abruptly, fearing the worst, but there is no cat in sight.

There never was a cat. You just stumbled upon a pickup location.

A reflection of cat’s eyes is commonplace at night. I’m sure your headlights have illuminated them at some point in your life. Two glowing eyes in the dark. But sometimes, they’re not quite what they appear to be. Cat’s Eyes are a device used in spycraft. They make for a great ‘pick up’ or ‘drop off’ signal.

Let’s say an operative wants to be picked up at an undisclosed location for security purposes, but she is deep in the country, and there are no local pubs or restaurants available. She has told her desk operator that she will be somewhere between spot code orange 7 and blue 13, but that stretch of road is long and lonely. This is where the Cat’s Eyes come in. The operator takes a simple sheet of plywood, paints it black, and uses glass beads backed with silver foil for the Cat’s Eyes. She plants it next to the road, hides out of sight, and waits for her pickup. Her pickup will know what those two glowing eyes mean, but anyone else will merely pass them by without a second glance.

Next time you’re traveling along a deserted highway at night, and you see two glowing eyes on the side of the road, don’t assume it’s a cat.

… especially if you see a shadowy figure waiting in the dark.

And don’t try to dig up that sheet of plywood. It’s not only extremely dangerous, but it’s against the law as well.

If you’d like to spend more time in the company of spies, let me recommend my new novel, Sleeping With Skeletons. You can find out more informtaion on that at my website. Thanks!

http://www.doralynn.net

EXCERPT FROM

SPIDERS

The whistle of an approaching train broke through the music and chatter and clinking silver. A black locomotive rumbled past the windows, its lights blurred by rain that streaked the glass. Hayden picked up his whiskey and turned back to his deputy. “You look beautiful tonight, Megan.”

“Thank you. You’re pretty snazzy yourself.” She reached out and adjusted his tie, letting her hands linger on his neck and the top of his chest a little longer than necessary. She cleared her throat and stepped back. “But I’d swear you’ve been trying to hang yourself with this. Every time I’ve looked at you, you’ve been tugging at this thing like a noose. Now it’s halfway to your back.”

So she’d been watching his table too. That thought pleased him… almost as much as the feel of her hands against his chest.

She dropped her gaze and turned away. “So, who are all these people? I barely recognize anyone.”

Hayden followed her stare, looking past the wooden boundaries of the cozy bar.

“Most of them are from Chapel’s police department, but there are some officers here from Julian as well. Plus the odd politician — their number, not their personality — and family members. If it were just the Talipatche Sheriff’s Department, we’d be a pretty straggly group.”

Hayden studied the people he saw only a few times a year. They had separated into clusters. Cops stood with other cops. Civilians gathered around other civilians. The politicians moved among everybody. Most of the LEOs were huddled in corners, no doubt talking shop, telling either their most humorous or their most hair-raising tales from the street—either that or they were discussing their latest firearm purchases or the stupidity of politics and their superiors.

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question, Hayden?”

“Depends on the question.”

She hesitated. “Maybe I’d better not ask then.”

“Can’t stop now, Megan. You’ve made me curious.” He almost said you’ve aroused my curiosity but stopped himself. He was trying not to think about how much she aroused him.

“What’s going on with Emma? She’s been crying all night.”

He turned back to the bartender and ordered another whiskey. He hadn’t expected that.

“Her dog died,” he answered.

She was silent, obviously not believing his answer and not finding it funny enough to laugh at.

He sighed. “I’ve been trying to break things off with her for a year. She finally realized I was serious. She’ll be fine. She’ll lambast me in the newspaper and skewer me at board meetings, but she’s a big girl. She’ll get over it.”

“I thought it was something like that.”

“Yeah, it’s exactly like that.” He drank his third whiskey and stared at the empty glass. “I haven’t seen you dancing tonight. Don’t you dance?”

She looked relieved at the change of subject. “I love to dance, but I usually dance Cumbia or Merengue.”

“If you can dance Cumbia and Merengue, a waltz will be a cinch. Care to try your feet at one?”

She glanced at the dance floor uncertainly. “Is that what this is?”

“Yes. It’s Ashokan Farewell. One of my favorites.”

She turned back to him. “Well, if you’re willing to risk it, I am too.”

He was willing to risk a lot more than that, and her words gave him the impression she was too. He trusted his skills of observation, and the body language behind her comment told him she was talking about more than a dance. He set down his glass and took her hand, finding it even softer than he’d expected, and led her to the dance floor—ignoring the shocked stares of everyone present.

“This is just a basic waltz, Megan. Your left hand goes here.” He lifted her hand and placed it on his right shoulder. “I want you close to me, so you can feel my movements, but not too close.” He wrapped his left hand around her right, slowly closing his fingers one by one, and lifted her arm straight to the side. He glanced down.

Had her breathing stopped?

There was no movement in her chest. He felt his pulse quicken and draped his right arm over her shoulder, resting his hand against the bare skin of her shoulder blade. “Your right foot goes between my feet. Now turn your head left.”

She stared at him and didn’t respond.

She still wasn’t breathing.

Hayden smiled. “Turn your head left,” he repeated, his voice low.

She slowly looked away, turning her face away from his. Her chest rose and fell with a slight catch, and her breathing resumed.

“Now I’ll step forward with my right leg and bring it between your legs. When I do, you step back on your left.” He moved toward her and she moved away. “Now you step right.” She did as he instructed. “Now forward, opposite leg. Now left.” She followed him effortlessly, gliding smoothly. “Now we just continue this same basic pattern. It’s a very strict rhythm. Don’t push it. Not too fast. Not too slow. Just follow the rhythm. Follow me.” He controlled the movements of her body easily, leading her gracefully across the floor. Forward, left, back, right. Each moving to the haunting strains of the violins and guitar. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

She smiled and looked back at him. “No, this is my first time. I’m just following your lead.”

“Keep your head left,” he said. “Well, you’re a natural. By the way, you smell good.”

“Thanks Hayden, so do you.”

A sudden flash startled him, when he turned toward it, he came face-to-face with Emma. She shoved her camera at him and snapped another picture. Then she lunged at Megan and tackled her to the dance floor with a Banshee-like wail.

http://www.doralynn.net

Excerpt from SLEEPING WITH SKELETONS available at The Wild Rose Press. 

The farmhouse’s blackened skeleton rose like an indistinct shadow in the diminishing daylight. Even from the orchard road the air smelled of sulfur. Danny hid the car in the trees, wondering how far behind his pursuer was, then made his way toward the sprawling, burned-out structure.

An eerie silence hung over the charred remains, and apart from a few nearby animal noises and his footsteps, there were no other sounds. He stepped over the shredded remains of the red and yellow fire and crime scene tape, ignored the danger signs, and walked into what had once been an entrance hall.

One side of the house, though severely fire damaged, still stood. Beams that shouldered the ceiling now leaned precariously, some were fallen and broken, collapsed against furniture that had been warped and melted in the fire’s heat. Charred and crumbling stairs led up into even greater destruction. Most of  the second floor was gone, and what remained lay below his feet or slumped against the first floor’s scorched walls.

The place was ready to collapse. If anything of significance still existed in this rubble, he needed to find it quickly. The demolition crews would arrive tomorrow to clear away the debris. He only hoped the place didn’t bury him in the meantime.

http://www.doralynn.net

Danny made his way to the outskirts of the crowd and stopped, glancing toward a bank of phone booths. Claire leaned against the last one, looking even more casual than usual. Her smooth brown legs were visible below the spandex jogging shorts she wore. He cursed under his breath when he saw the outfit. She’d won two gold medals in the Olympics, and though he had no trouble keeping up with her, he wasn’t prepared for a ten-mile run in a pair of brown loafers and tan dress pants.

He caught her eye, lit a cigarette, then turned and moved toward the street. He walked a few blocks, allowing her to follow and check for any tails he might have picked up. He felt fairly confident she wouldn’t find any, he’d lost the last one over a week ago. Once he was satisfied that she’d had ample time to check him, he stopped at a newspaper rack and bought a paper. He tucked it under his arm and looked down the crowded sidewalk.

Claire stopped, bent over to tie her shoe, then gave Danny the all clear. She turned and jogged off, heading toward the park.

Danny looked around once more, making note of who was in the area, and moved back into the stream of foot traffic. After a few blocks he was satisfied no one was tailing her either.

Claire skirted the park then stopped and did some stretching exercises, catching his eye as she did. Danny dropped his cigarette, grinding it under foot, and gave the signal that the meet was a go.

They were both clean.

Neither of them was being followed.

http://www.doralynn.net

But she’s just one woman, and only one man will get her.

Let’s hope he’s the right one.

Women have long played an important role in the clandestine activities of groups of all sizes, from small factions to large super powers.

In the Bible, “Rahab the Harlot”, hid twelve Jewish spies and has been forever memorialized in the best-selling book of all time.

Virginia Hall was a clerk with the Department of State. She was turned down for a position in foreign service, partly due to her gender, but also because she had a wooden leg and walked with a limp. But neither her sex nor her disability could hold back this indomitable lady. She traveled to Europe and joined the French underground, where she became a field officer. She became fluent in German and French and had knowledge of morse code and could work a wireless radio. Because of these skills, she became a valuable asset to the OSS, the Office of Strategic Services, the precursor of the CIA.

During the D-Day invasion, Virginia Hall worked with the French underground to cut electrical lines to telegraph offices, disrupting German communications. She also worked as a milkmaid, delivering milk to German soldiers. But that was a cover used to collect intelligence. She became known as the “limping lady of the OSS.” Later, after the war, she became one of the CIA’s first female operations officers. She received the Distinguished Service Cross, the second-highest U.S. military award for bravery.

In my novel, one of my main character’s aliases is in honor of this incredible woman.

Josephine Baker, an American expatriate, was a well-known entertainer and actress. She was a popular singer who became a French citizen in 1937. She was known as the “Bronze Venus” and the “Black Pearl”, as well as the “Créole Goddess” and “La Baker”. Josephine Baker was the first African-American woman to star in a major motion picture, and she made significant contributions to the Civil Rights Movement in the United States. She was even  offered the leadership of the Civil Rights Movement by Coretta Scott King following the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr.

Josephine Baker was also a spy.

She served in the French Resistance during World War II and was the first American-born woman to receive the French military honor, the Croix de Guerre. During the war, Josephine Baker smuggled secret information written in invisible ink on her sheet music. Due to her fame, she was able to complete her missions unnoticed. Passport checkers were so stage struck, that they gave her free access to all of Europe, never suspecting that she was, in fact, a spy. 

Perhaps one of the most unlikely spies of all time was the famous chef, Julia Child.

Long before she became a household name and a flamboyant TV personality, she worked for the OSS. She started her service in the OSS Headquarters shortly after the United States entered World War II. One of her most famous assignments was to solve a problem that faced the U.S. naval forces during World War II. Sharks were bumping into explosives placed underwater, setting them off before they could sink German U-boats as intended. Julia Child, along with several male counterparts, invented a shark repellent that was used to coat the explosives. They literally cooked up an ingenious recipe that stopped a deadly problem, saving an unknown number of lives. 

She served in Ceylon and in China, where she was the head of the Registry of the OSS Secretariat. She was awarded the Emblem of Meritorious Civilian Service for her leadership in that post.  

During America’s Revolutionary War, General George Washington was aided by information provided by the mysterious “355,” a female member of the Culper spy ring. The number “355″ was code for “lady”. This unknown woman helped expose Benedict Arnold as a traitor. To this day, no one knows who she was. Like so many brave women who have served, and continue to serve as spies, she simply did what had to be done and then faded into obscurity, taking her secrets with her to the grave.

I hope you will join me over the next few days, through the 23rd of October, as I blog about spies, spycraft, tricks of the trade, and my debut novel, Sleeping With Skeletons.

http://www.doralynn.net