"What are you doing on my property?" the wizened old man demanded angrily. "You're trespassing."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Get off my land!" His eyes flashed.

"Not until you tell me who your contact is."

James Frayne’s eyes narrowed as comprehension dawned on him. He should have realized sooner. All the pieces fit. This was the man responsible for Nell's death. He would have the wherewith all to plant the snake, to tamper with his car, to make sure no help came. If this man told the community that James Frayne had lost his marbles and attacked him, then people would believe him. It was hard to decide who was the bigger fool – the traitor standing in front of him or the citizens in the community who respected the man.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Officer. Now, get off my property."

The trespasser took a step closer, swinging a baton in his hand. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. Spill the beans or prepare to die."

James laughed. As if death could be a threat to him! His life without Nell was empty; and he would welcome death like an old friend. It might have been different if he could have brought Jim and Katie to live with him … But since he'd always known Nell's death was no accident, bringing the woman and young child to Ten Acres would have been a foolhardy move that put them in jeopardy. They were better off without him. After learning about Katie's second husband, Eugene Jones, and his violent temper, he’d reconsidered. The one thing he could do to help Win’s family was to set some inquiries into motion. Connections were good to have, and Rainsford...

"I'm telling you Frayne; it's long past time for you to give it up."

His eyes narrowed and he charged, head first toward the intruder. He'd go down, he knew that, but he'd go down fighting.

 

 

Along the halls of the old building where no sunlight reached, there were numerous offices. The terrazzo floors were a testament to quality construction from a previous era. Despite their age the floors held up well with their once a week mopping and nightly sweeping. Everything in the building was ordinary and unremarkable. No markings or signage distinguished one office door from the next. Each office contained a desk, battered heavy metal file cabinets lining the walls, and a large safe in the corner.

Inside one office, an ordinary-looking middle-aged man sat at the desk, tapping a pencil against a calendar-styled blotter. The push-button phone before him was a startling modern touch in a room that appeared frozen in an era sixty years past. The curled cord and the thick phone line from the base to the wall were as plain and ordinary as they were in the early 1970's. What only a few people knew was that the phone only rang when it was a matter of national security. Its ring signaled critical information that had an immediate need-to-know. The office occupant would pick up the phone at the first ring.

This time was no exception. The man put down his pencil and lifted the receiver. “Mr. Brown here,” he said. After listening carefully for several minutes, he asked a question. “Are you sure?”

He was silent as the caller spoke again, nodding as the voice on the other end continued.

“Understood, I’ll take care of it.”

He hung up the phone and sighed. It was always hard to lose a good operative, but harder still when the circumstances were so murky. Job related incidents were just as likely as natural causes. The bare facts that a neighbor found James Frayne at the end of his driveway suffering from exposure could cover many possible scenarios. Frayne was no spring chicken, but despite his appearance and demeanor toward his neighbors, he was a damn good operative. Mr. Brown picked up his pencil again and resumed tapping on the edge of his blotter.

Modern desks were designed to be sleek and smooth with the look and feel of a cockpit. They incorporated features to accommodate computers, cords, and phone lines. In contrast, Mr. Brown’s desk was simple and basic enough to be startling. A brass lamp, the corded phone, a blotter, and a pencil case decorated the plain wooden desk with its numerous drawers and strong locks. Anyone glancing at the set-up would think it old-fashioned and ordinary, probably something left over from the nineteen-fifties. In actuality, it was set up in the nineteen-forties when the United States of America first entered the Second World War. Mr. Brown leaned back in his chair and wondered what in the world he would do if he had to replace one of his best operatives.

 

 

“Did you hear?” Her voice was quiet, but despite his aged appearance, there was nothing wrong with his hearing. It was as sharp as ever.

“Yes.” He placed a pound of coffee in the brown paper sack. There were no modern conveniences in his store. Brown paper had uses beyond holding groceries. “We better be on the lookout, they’ll have to select a replacement.”

“I know, and soon. Did you get my butter?”

“It’s in the bottom with the cream; it’s best to put cold things together. Now do you need anything else?”

“No, that’s everything required for windmill cookies. Are you going to bill me?”

“Yes, your account’s current. Let’s keep it that way.”

She nodded realizing he’d received the message. Her account was current – that meant the death of James Winthrop Frayne raised the threat level for their area. She would work to keep it from escalating further, as would others.

There were six of them altogether, and just like the original secret six, none of them knew who all six members were. Only one person had that information, and he was far away and very high up in clandestine operations. They only knew him by his code name, Mr. Brown.

What Mr. Brown had to determine, and soon, is who would replace Old Man Frayne. The cantankerous hermit had appeared to be unstable to many who knew him in the last few years, but those in contact with him as part of the Sleepyside Secret Six knew better. James was sharp and cunning when it came to matters of espionage. By picking a fight with Peter Belden, he’d ensured the young father and his family would keep away from Ten Acres. Living the life of a disgruntled hermit gave James certain freedoms the rest of them didn't have.

Picking up the brown paper sack, Willemina Vanderpoel turned to leave the store, wondering who Mr. Brown would recruit to replace James Frayne on the team. It was time, long past time for them to bring in some younger blood. Heavens, who knew how much longer she would be around? Frank Lytell wasn’t getting any younger and as for Mr. …, well, she shouldn’t assume anything. She had no way of actually confirming if he was one of the six or not, although she had her suspicions. Mr. Hartman had recently retired from the police force, she recalled. He might be a good candidate to replace James. However, their training covered the risks associated with trusting or recruiting agents from law enforcement. Just like within their own Agency, there were bad copes mixed in with the good, and cops had a tendency of trying to go farther than their assignment specified. Nathan Hale, who the agency always held up to them during training as America’s first spy, was caught and hung during his very first mission. You wouldn’t find any of the Sleepyside Secret Six being that careless. Mr. Brown had trained them well and they knew their craft.

 

 

The Agency considered Mr. Brown to be the best recruiter they’d ever had. He had a perfect record of recruiting spies to his New York-Hudson River team. The Sleepyside Secret Six were in place to make things happen, to keep both New York and the country safe. However, for the first time in many years, they were only five. Serving in the Secret Six was a lifetime commitment. Each of them took the secrets they protected to the grave. There was nothing in their homes, their journals, their checkbooks, or their wills that would indicate to anyone their membership in a spy ring. All six of them knew the anonymous Mr. Brown who managed them, and at least one other member of the spy ring. A few of them might know more than one, but only Mr. Brown knew them all. He personally recruited and trained each of them and they were as unidentifiable to the Agency as they were to the rest of the world. That was critical. A busted cover would mean … well it would mean what happened to Nathan Hale.

As Willemina Vanderpoel drove home with her groceries, she couldn’t help but wonder who Mr. Brown would recruit to fill James Frayne’s spot. She was serious about hoping he’d search out some young blood. No matter how young-at-heart she felt, she couldn’t deny her age. She put away the last of her groceries and moved to her sitting room to reminisce on her own recruitment to the Six and contemplate what would happen next before making her windmill cookies.

Back at his general store, Frank Lytell enjoyed his solitude almost as much as he enjoyed gossip. Unfortunately, for him, the two didn’t go hand-in-hand. He’d worked hard to position himself as the gossipy curmudgeon storekeeper, although he certainly did not consider his conversations with Willemina as gossip. They were colleagues of a sort.

He learned long ago that in order to hear gossip, you had to give gossip. He had a knack; a talent Mr. Brown had called it, to know exactly what gossip was village fluff and nonsense and what gossip was intelligence gathering. Opening up the store each morning and receiving a simple daily delivery of newspapers from the city, enabled him to do more for the Secret Six than any planned activity ever could. Perfection of an unbreakable spy craft required routines, regular, unbroken routines. A plethora of information could accompany a daily delivery. It only took one glance toward the bundle of newspapers for him to know exactly what to look for and where to look for it. Things right now weren’t as bad as they had been at one time.

It had been over a decade since those planes flew into the Trade Center in New York and he still hadn’t forgiven himself. He had already started passing the intelligence report when word came of the first crash. James Frayne had felt the same way, and it had almost broken him for real. He took the deaths of all those innocent people as hard as he’d taken the loss of his beloved Nell. But, that was neither here nor there. Frank Lytell puffed on his pipe and thought of James, finally reunited with his wife. It did seem odd to him, that out of the members of the six he knew, none of them had kids. He wondered if that would be a factor in Mr Brown’s selection of James’ replacement. It wasn’t his call, but he did think it was time to bring in new, young blood.

The jingling bell on the front door signaled customers. He couldn’t stop a scowl as he recognized that harum-scarum Trixie Belden and her new neighbor and friend. They were there for the newspapers.

“They just arrived,” he told them, pointing to the first page. He pretended to ignore the two girls as they read the headlines, and then the new friend giggled.

“Isn’t that just like a newspaper? They would make it a girl!” She almost immediately clapped her hand over her mouth.

It was suspicious. What were those girls up to? “Eh, what’s that?”

Trixie grabbed the paper and turned to page two. There were pictures of James’ home there and she read the caption aloud: “In this house and perhaps in this very room a fortune may be hidden.”

“I doubt that.” He accompanied the girls as far as the door. He owed it to Mr. Brown to stick with James’ cover story. “In my opinion, Mr. Frayne died a pauper. What was that you were saying about a girl?”

“Nothing,” Trixie replied hastily, and the two of them quickly left.

Frank stared after them until they disappeared from his line of sight. He sighed, realizing that someone clearly knew about James Winthrop Frayne II, and knew he was alive. He knew that the young man would inherit a fortune, and had to trust Mr. Brown and the company to make sure things worked out. James had taken his secrets to the grave, but that didn’t mean his only surviving relative shouldn’t receive what was due him. The best thing for him to do now would be to send the intel through the network. Mr. Brown would know whom to call.

 

 

Back in the dreary, dated office, Mr. Brown finished reading the dossier he had compiled. Everything indicated he had to move quickly to replace James Frayne. The medical reports clearly stated that James’ death was no simple case of old age and exposure. The man had been bludgeoned in the head and left to die.

He leaned back in his creaking chair and stared at the ceiling. He’d had his eye on a man for some time. It could be tricky to recruit him; a spy with a spouse and kids was unusual; the spouse and kids were points of vulnerability that could be exploited by enemy forces; but at the same time, he had the perfect cover. He traveled frequently, in and out of the country, money would be no object for him, and he was clearly a loyal American. There was no question in Mr. Brown’s mind exactly who would fill the need for the Sleepyside Six team. He picked up the phone and made a call.

“Mrs. Gray? I need you to get me an appointment to see Matthew Wheeler.”