Falling Star (The Watchers)

by Philip Chen

  The lifeless but still penetratingly beautiful blue eyes of Mildred's attacker stared upward into nothing. Shaking, Mildred turned to examine the lifeless body of the attractive, black-haired, blue-eyed woman, recognizing her as a fellow passenger from New York.

  Mildred reached forward and gently closed her attacker's lifeless eyes. Her black hair remained remarkably undisturbed. Mildred's attacker looked as if she were asleep, except for the small but spreading red stain on her white silk blouse.

  Leaning down, Mildred picked up the garrote, rolled it up, and placed it into her straw bag. There wasn't enough time for a thorough search of this stranger. How could I have been so careless, she thought.

  Quickly, Mildred noted some features of the dead woman. Did she look European or American? It was hard to tell. No, the assailant had no distinct features; she could have been anyone's daughter. She was dressed like every other young businesswoman that Mildred had seen on her trip.

  "Uffda. I've got to get out of here," Mildred muttered.

  Cautiously, Mildred opened the toilet stall door and perched the body of her attacker on the stool. Mildred was relieved that the cut on her left hand was superficial. After wrapping the cut hand in a handkerchief, Mildred carefully put her hand into her left pocket. She adjusted her silk scarf to hide the bruises on her neck, opened the door to the hallway, and calmly stepped out.

  She turned right, walked swiftly past the Hertz car rental stand, and turned right through the sliding glass door. Exiting the enclosed air conditioned climate of the airport lobby into the muggy Washington summer afternoon, Mildred joined the line of passengers already formed at the taxi stand. At the taxi stand, the dispatcher asked Mildred where she was going.

  "I'm going to 4521 Wisconsin Avenue, Northwest," said Mildred in her soft, grandmotherly voice.

  1600 Hours: Thursday, June 10, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.

  "Welcome, Ms. Swensen," said the Airman First Class manning the counter at the entry level. "I hope you won't mind, but security is security."

  "Oh, I don't mind at all, son. What would you like me to do?"

  "We have the standard retina, fingerprint and voice analysis test. However, because of the location, we have to also conduct the ReTek DNA identifier test before we can issue you identification. New orders."

  "My stars! That is new. I sure hope it doesn't hurt."

  "Don't worry, Ms. Swensen. It's quite painless. You just have to give us a saliva sample." He handed Mildred a small plastic cup.

  Having completed the test sequence, Mildred was given clearance to proceed to the debriefing room.

  "Who was that?" said the young Marine guard manning the counter with the Airman. "She could've been my grandmother."

  "I'm not sure you would want her for your grandmother. I hear tell her nickname is The Black Widow. She has more confirmed kills than any other agent of CSAC."

  "Wow."

  Mildred was a pioneer in CSAC, its first woman agent. She was recruited by the fledging CSAC organization in 1965 from her first job as an intelligence analyst for the Central Intelligence Agency, which she had joined in the late fifties. A native Minnesotan, Mildred was a descendant of Norwegian settlers in the fertile Red River of the North valley of Minnesota.

  When Mildred was hired by CSAC, she discovered she had a knack for the more physical aspects of the agency's mission. She quickly became an expert in special projects, the kind that were not normally considered appropriate for the distaff side of the agency in those days. Mildred quickly found out that her special skills and inclinations were perfectly suited for that particular line of endeavor.

  Special projects evoked in Mildred the same visceral pleasure she had first felt so long ago during deer season in Minnesota with her beloved grandfather. She would always love the kindly, soft-spoken Norwegian farmer who taught his awkward, bookish, eight-year-old granddaughter the thrill of the chase and the rush of the kill.

  Hunting was much more than finding and scoring a kill. That was the lesson that her grandfather had taught. There was a system, a methodology that had to be followed: finding a fresh trail, stalking the quarry through its daily chores, gaining knowledge of the minute details of its life, setting up the final moment, and finally the kill, the ultimate intimate moment. The explosion of the rifle followed by the almost choreographed falling of the prey. There was no anguish, no dramatic last gasping moment, just the silent slumping of the deer as the bullet completed its grisly assignment.

  Young Mildred was upset and shocked when her grandfather field-dressed her first deer that cold November day so long ago; the careful knife cut through the fur and the musculature of the fallen deer lying peacefully, as if asleep, in the fresh-fallen snow. Afterward, steamy entrails of white, yellow, and blue poured out of the deer's split belly in a cascade of crimson, glistening in the noonday sun.

  Her initial shock at the horror of that moment quickly became a lifelong fascination with the machines of life. Mildred was fascinated with the thought that fur and skin were merely the outer coverings; packaging for the intricate construction of separate mysteries that lay hidden so close to the surface. Mysteries that could be only revealed when the outer covering was carefully peeled back just as her beloved grandfather had taught her. Her parents applauded this bent for science and quietly dreamt of Mildred someday teaching biology at the local high school.

  Like others of her kind, the young Mildred first experimented with small animals, making sure that the procedure was always within acceptable limits. She often used the .22 caliber sports rifle her parents gave her. Sometimes her conquests were far more creative. Her biological totems were carefully packed in rubbing alcohol in small canning jars discarded by her mother.

  Mildred's parents were ecstatic that their otherwise quiet, bookish child enjoyed this healthy outdoor educational activity. Mildred's father was particularly proud of his daughter, who didn't spend time playing house like other girls, but was out practically every day perfecting her hunting skills. They encouraged and supported this aspect of Mildred's childhood development.

  Now, in the twilight of her career, Mildred had become an elder statesman of CSAC. Legend had it that she was the most prolific assassin in the agency's history. With her milk-fed complexion, shapely figure, attractive features, innocent blue eyes, and golden locks, the younger Mildred had been able to get into places more hardened agents could not. Once in, Mildred accomplished her assignment with deadly accuracy. Mildred's knowledge of anatomy, especially human anatomy, made her surgically efficient.

  Investment bankers like Mike Liu may have their brass, Lucite and wooden souvenirs, but people with Mildred's particular bent of mind also kept souvenirs. Souvenirs meant to bring back the rush and to symbolize the thrill of the moment. Mildred was no different. However, her strict Lutheran upbringing limited those souvenirs to objects found on or near her achievements. The more grisly totems would be kept by others. The only biological souvenir she kept was a broken fragment of antler from her first kill. Her souvenirs were kept in a cardboard shoe box hidden on her closet shelf. During quiet moments, she would bring the treasures down and relive the excitement and rush that her assignments had brought her.

  Mildred enjoyed her semi-retirement, taking only occasional courier assignments, which allowed her more time with her long-suffering husband, their four daughters, and many grandchildren. Her family never knew the extent of Mildred's secret life and dismissed her grisly treasures, because of their seemingly ordinariness, as mementos of their wife/mother's travels abroad as a State Department researcher. Despite her secret career, Mildred was a devoted wife, mother, and grandmother. Upon her retirement as a State Department researcher, Mildred and her family had returned to the rich black dirt of her beloved Red River of the North valley and established a life of rural stability. Her husband farmed sunflower or sorghum wheat or corn or sugar beet, whatever was profitable. Mildred ran a Scandinavian hobby shop in Crookston. Mildred's shop was a popular p
lace in Crookston, particularly during the long, cold Minnesota winter.

  The debriefing room was, in actuality, a small operating room. After examining the superficial wounds to her left hand and neck, the duty nurse asked Mildred to put on a hospital gown and to lie on the operating table. The surgeon had already scrubbed and was standing beside the table. In a corner, two armed Marines in battle fatigues stood quietly with an iron container, its top open.

  Exposing Mildred's remarkably well developed and still physically firm body, especially given her outwardly older appearance, the board-certified plastic surgeon made a small incision directly below Mildred's left armpit. With a surgical nurse helping with the spreaders, the surgeon retrieved a small plastic and gold cylinder from the subcutaneous layer of Mildred's skin using a retractor that fully enclosed the small thin cylinder. The surgeon then placed the retractor containing the cylinder gently into a lead-lined cylinder, closed the cover of the lead lined container, and handed the cylinder to a Marine Lieutenant, who was dressed in a green surgical gown, as was everyone in the operating room except the two guards.

  The Lieutenant placed the cylinder into the lock box held by the Marine guards, evacuated the container with a portable pump, and injected nitrogen gas into the apparatus. The surgeon then opened a plastic bag and retrieved a small plastic and gold cylinder, which he placed into the open wound below Mildred's left armpit. He closed the wound, taking great care to close tissue layer by layer to minimize any scarring of Mildred's skin. When completed, the scar over the cylinder would be barely noticeable.

  The discarded plastic bag lay in a stainless steel bowl. On the plastic bag in typically bureaucratic language was printed the message: MILSPEC 1993-35.77, Recording Chip -- DOD/CSAC Classified -- Z Level -- Cryptographic.

  The MILSPEC 1993-35.77 Recording Chip was a remarkable technological breakthrough. Small enough to be inserted subcutaneously into a courier's body, the chip was programmable through use of digitized magnetic induction devices. Once programmed, the chip could not be altered by conventional devices. For example, magnetic detection security gates at airport security stations could not alter the message implanted in the cylinder. The chip had to be physically removed to access or change the magnetically induced message.

  If removed by someone other than a CSAC surgeon using the proper extraction tool, the chip would be rendered useless. The chip was used only for the most secret information. The existence of the recording chip was one of CSAC's most closely guarded secrets.

  In Mildred's case, the information had been encoded using an induction magnetizer at the CSAC field office located at the Grand Forks Air Force Base near Grand Forks, North Dakota. The basic data had been flown by military personnel from Watch Station Four located somewhere in Lake Superior. Since the nearest encoding devices were located at Grand Forks, the data had been flown there instead of directly to Washington.

  Mildred was encoded after checking into the CSAC office at the air base. Data encoding did not require intrusive surgery. A digital transmitter was placed next to the site of the cylinder and after a brief moment, the message was recorded. Mildred was then handed tickets to Minneapolis and New York and from there to Washington. The circuitous route was to minimize any interference with the courier, who, as far as the world was concerned, was merely on a shopping trip for her Scandinavian hobby shop.

  After the superficial wounds on her left hand and neck were treated and Mildred had dressed, she went down to the security office where George Smith had been attempting to identify Mildred's attacker.

  1800 Hours: Thursday, June 10, 1993: George Smith's Office, Washington, D.C.

  George Smith, an ex-FBI special agent, was the civilian chief of security at CSAC. His law enforcement demeanor and ten years experience as a special agent of the FBI was especially useful in his present job. Under cover as a security consultant to the State Department, Smith was known to all federal agencies and to many state criminology departments as well.

  Smith was a thin, dapper man. He wore navy blue suits year round, starched white shirts, red and black striped ties, and heavy, black, plain-toed shoes. Smith was fond of wearing the black-rimmed glasses made famous by Barry Goldwater, the Republican candidate for President of the United States in 1964. His dark hair was always cut in a short but presentable fashion. In a way he looked like a younger version of the singer Roy Orbison, a comparison he secretly enjoyed. Despite that small vanity, Smith was a serious person not given to humor or idle gossip.

  Smith's office was strictly utilitarian, middle management, federal agency issue. The tan metal desk was complemented by russet leatherette and metal chairs. Smith kept few personal items in his office, preferring to maintain a respectful distance between his office and home lives. His office had a green chalkboard, upon which Smith did some of his best thinking. The security files in his office were armed with electronic locks, set to signal security if any unauthorized attempt were made to open them. You got the combination right the first time or large silent men dressed in black suits, with no sense of humor, immediately showed up at your door.

  A half dead plant sat forlornly on the top of the security cabinet. Try as he might, Smith was no gardener. Smith was on the telephone when Mildred entered his office.

  "Well, okay. If you find out anything, please let me know." He returned the handset to its cradle and turned to Mildred.

  "That was a friend of mine in the Federal Aviation Agency's airport security office. Boy, do they hate stiffs turning up in airports. Hurts the image that airports are antiseptic, user friendly places. I call him every so often to kibitz. Used that today, pretending that I hadn't heard a thing."

  "Any idea who the attacker might be?" Mildred said.

  "So far, the only thing we have is the body of an unnamed, thirtyish, black-haired, blue-eyed, Caucasian female. The National Airport Police think she may have been the victim of an attempted rape and robbery. The corpse had no identification or money. When the airport police showed her photograph around, some shuttle flight attendant remembered seeing her on a flight from La Guardia.

  "Even so, there were no boarding passes, purses, or other identifying items. This is why the police think that robbery may have been the motive. The labels on her clothes were all general brand names. We will have little to go on. We can't get directly involved without revealing that one of our agents was the killer. Consequently, we're going to have to rely on normal channels.

  "At least you had the good sense to neutralize her on FAA regulated property. The FBI will eventually get some information. Between them and my friend at the FAA, we should be able to get something. In addition, our DIA agents will be able to get something and may already have. The gases in the pellet are designed to disintegrate completely and be absorbed in the dying body so that any residual concentration is minimal.

  "Any autopsy they perform on your friend will conclude that she died of a puncture wound to her abdomen area, followed by cardiac arrest. The medical examiner will likely conclude the deflated lungs were due to the physical attack. Luckily, the explosion was so fast that the tissue damage can be just as easily interpreted as being externally caused. There will be no suspicion that your friend's death was caused by internal trauma. I guess it's another scalp for your belt, Mildred."

  "I'm getting too old for scalps. That's why I downgraded to Level Two. This was supposed to be a milk run. Do we have any idea what this person was up to?"

  "Can't be sure until we get some form of positive identification. I understand that the Arlington County medical examiner sent your friend's prints to the national crime center in Atlanta, Georgia. At least we'll be able to see if we've met her before. I have a feeling that the prints will come up negative. The garrote was homemade. No sophistication whatsoever."

  "Could it be I was made?" said Mildred.

  "The boys don't think so, given the speed in which the courier assignment was made. On the other hand, if this person made you at the airport and decided
to bag a big one on the spur of the moment, that would explain the homemade garrote."

  "Hate to disagree, George. There's no way she could have had access to wires and wood at the airport."

  "We'll find out in due course, Mildred. Meanwhile, go get some rest. Do you want some backup on your trip home?"

  "No, George. Even retired Level Ones like to travel alone. I'm going down to the laboratory, my knitting needle needs a refill," she said, shaking her head in disbelief. "Oh, by the way. Can I have the garrote back?"

  "Sure," said Smith, hesitantly. He didn't have to ask why because he knew and he understood. It was painful to think that his old friend Mildred still needed to keep such things.

  1993: Somewhere in Minnesota

  2100 Hours: Thursday, June 10, 1993: Outside of Mankato, Minnesota

  "Tell us where the message is and you can go," said Tim Walsh, his voice calm and even.

  "I keep telling you, I don't know what you're talking about," said the disheveled man tied to a metal chair in the kitchen, his hands cinched tightly behind his back, his eyes blindfolded. "I don't know what you want."

  "Don't lie to us," said Walsh. His pale blue eyes stared impassively at the blindfolded and bound prisoner. His voice remained flat. "We know you're a special courier and we want the message. It is vital to my leaders."

  "Look, I really don't know who you are or what you want. What are you talking about? I'm just a distributor for a Seattle, Washington, automotive specialty parts manufacturer. What do you want from me? What? What in God's name have I ever done to you?"

  Ignoring the pleas of the blindfolded man, Walsh turned to the third man in the room. "Did you find anything in his papers or briefcase?"