The Manganese Dilemma

by Ian Miller

  * * *

  Dennis was sitting in front of TV, watching a game and drinking from a can of beer, when the front doorbell rang. He got up and went to the door, and looked out through the spyglass. Seemingly a pizza delivery boy. Since he had not ordered pizza, this boy was obviously at the wrong place, and he was about to go back to his chair when the boy rang the doorbell again. It was then he realized lights were on, so anyone from the street would know someone was home. Rather reluctantly, he opened the door to tell the boy to go away.

  The door was flung wide open, and he fell back. Three men bounded in, yelled "Happy Birthday!" and a fourth gave the pizza boy a twenty dollar tip as well as buying the pizzas. The boy went away quite happily. He had no idea what was going on behind that very recently closed door, but he also suspected he did not want to know.

  The men dragged Dennis back into the TV room, and sat him in the seat he had been sitting in. The sound on the TV was turned up, a clear signal to Dennis that the next period of time was going to be painful.

  "There are two ways of going about this," one of the men said. "You can answer some questions, and if you answer truthfully, you can finish watching your game. Alternatively, you can be pig-headed and force us to extract the information. It is conceivable that if you do this you might even hold out, but it will be exceptionally painful for you."

  "Who the hell are you?" Dennis asked.

  He was rewarded with two flat-handed strikes to his head. His nose started bleeding. "We ask the questions. You answer them. Understand?"

  Silence.

  Two more vicious strikes, and Dennis' cheek started to puff up. "Understand?"

  "Yes," came a pitiful murmur.

  "You will answer louder." Another strike. "You understand?"

  "Yes." This was much louder.

  "Good. We are making progress. Now, what I did then was really just softening, and letting you know we are serious, but nothing serious has happened to you, has it?"

  "No," came a more pitiful whimper.

  "I'll let that go, but I want louder. Now, every time you do not answer one of my questions, I shall cut off one of your fingers. Understand?"

  "Yes." This was really frightened.

  "Good. Now, you went out and entered into contracts to purchase a few blocks of land recently, did you not?"

  "Yes."

  "But you didn't pay, did you?"

  Dennis stared at the man, who finally began to lose patience and reached for some long handled tree pruners. "No! No!"

  "No what?"

  "No, I didn't complete the purchase."

  "Why not?"

  "I couldn't," Dennis pleaded. "Honest."

  "Explain why you wasted the time of the man who wants something back for your losing him a big sale?" Nothing like obfuscating the origin of this questioning.

  "I couldn't. No money."

  "Then why did you –"

  "Look," Dennis pleaded, "I was going to borrow it, but it disappeared."

  "Disappeared?" The man looked puzzled.

  "The shit-head was going to steal it," one of the others offered. "Someone took precautions and he wasn't up to it."

  "That right?"

  "Yes," Dennis whimpered.

  "Pathetic. OK, next question. Answer this truthfully and you can keep your fingers. Lie to me and I'll cut off both your hands. Understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Right, where did you get information about that land?"

  Dennis looked frightened, but once again the man reached for the tree pruners. "Wait! It was at work."

  "And where is that?"

  Dennis poured out an explanation of where he worked, who Rutherford was, as he knew it, and who else was there.

  "So, that wasn't so hard was it? Now you can go back and watch your game, or do what you like, except you don't leave this apartment. Understand?"

  "Not leave it?"

  "Not for a day or so. Two of us will stay here to keep you company. Now, a piece of advice. You be a good little fellow, and if you've told the truth, we'll leave you alone and you'll never hear from us again. You try something stupid, like trying to sneak away, and we'll think you've been lying, and, well, you know what we might do."

  Dennis sat there, almost petrified.

  "Tomorrow, we'll check up on your so-called workplace. If what you've told us is true, you're free."

  "Suppose they don't all turn up?" Dennis almost squeaked. "I mean, they don't all always."

  "Enough will do. Now if you want to amend any fibs, or add to any descriptions?"

  Dennis did. It soon became obvious he had paid more attention to Svetlana's looks than those of the others, a fact that caused some jokes amongst his tormentors.

  "Don't worry. We'll find a way," the man said with a cruel grin.

  * * *

  The following morning, Burrowes noticed that Svetlana seemed deep in thought. "A penny for them?" he said.

  "For what?" a bemused Svetlana asked.

  "Your thoughts," Burrowes said, then had to explain, "It's a saying, a penny for your thoughts, and you say it when someone looks very thoughtful."

  "Oh."

  "So, what's bothering you?"

  "You know I came from Russia," she started.

  "I've been told that several times, and, well, you do have an accent."

  "Well, Russia has had, from time to time, secret police, and . . ."

  "And?" a now puzzled Burrowes said.

  "And, well, you get to recognize when you're being watched."

  "You're being watched? Who do you think is doing it?"

  "There's a brown car parked on the other side of the road, and someone was watching through binoculars. I've no idea who they are."

  "Maybe we'd better tell the boss. If it's someone like the FBI, he ought to know."

  "Then here's your chance," she said. "He's coming this way."

  Rutherford stopped in front of their desks and asked whether there was any further progress on the Russian front. "The guy who's paying you is getting tetchy," he explained in a rather grumpy tone.

  Burrowes decided that avoiding a direct question just to introduce the issue of possible watchers would be more likely to be interpreted as his trying to avoid the fact he had got nowhere. He also thought that Svetlana was probably just being unduly suspicious of a parked car, so he explained that they had gone through all the Rostec funded companies.

  "And?"

  "Basically, we're not much further ahead," Burrowes admitted. "We can eliminate these companies," and he pointed to a pile of files, "because they've had no perceptible purchases of manganese based chemicals. Then there's this lot, who might have, but we have no evidence they have. Finally there's this company that owns that building in the woods outside Ufa, and they have received parcels of manganese dioxide and a number of other chemicals, they produce chemical waste that disappears off for processing, and they ship something to a company that makes paint, and in turn, that company supplies the Russian Aircraft Corporation. I don't know if that helps, but, well, after that we've hit a dead end." He remembered Lawton's comment about Russian warplanes. Surely whatever he was supposed to find could not be paint? Still, with that clue he had to keep this company alive.

  "I see. That seems to be progress. OK, I'll report that, and . . ." Rutherford looked towards the door, where somebody in a white coat had come in. "You! What are you doing?"

  "I'm checking the electrical . . ." He stopped, flicked up a cell phone and probably took a photograph. It was then that he seemed to recognise Rutherford, and at the same time, Rutherford seemed to recognise him. Rutherford reached for a shoulder holster, and on seeing this, the man pulled out a handgun from his overalls and fired a shot at Rutherford. Rutherford had dived for the floor and had a desk between him and the man.

  Burrowes also dived for cover, where he saw Svetlana also on the floor and commando crawling quite rapidly away from her desk and further from the gunman. Burrowes started crawling as well.


  He looked back over his shoulder. Rutherford was holding an arm, but he was watching for the gunman to appear. Burrowes kept crawling away, but also kept looking back. Rutherford peered around the corner of his desk, his gun in his left hand. He lifted the pistol, fired, then pulled back behind the desk. There were a further two shots, and a shower of splinters flew off the desk that Rutherford was hiding behind. There was quiet. He heard the sound of a door, and saw Svetlana's feet slithering out through it. He decided to follow.

  He looked back, and saw Rutherford was now looking around the desk, but he looked puzzled and clearly he could not see where the gunman had gone. Burrowes kept crawling towards the door. He came to the end of the cover, and had to cross a couple of meters to get to the doorway. He peered around the edge of his cover, which was a small mobile cupboard, and saw the gunman's arm. He quickly pulled back. Rutherford looked at him, so he pointed at where the gunman was.

  "Front right, boss!" Brian called out.

  There followed an exchange of gunfire; apparently Brian also had a gun. Who were these people? There was a yell, then the sound of feet. Rutherford had looked around the corner of his desk, and let off a couple of shots, but the feet kept going. Rutherford was seemingly not very accurate with his left hand. The footsteps died, and there was silence. Rutherford groaned as he stood up.

  Burrowes raised his head and peeked over the top of the desk he was hiding behind. The gunman had gone. Rutherford was running after him, although he was still clutching his arm. Brian was slumped over his desk, blood leaking from him, and a handgun had fallen in front of him.

  Two minutes later, Svetlana poked her head back into the room, then came in. "Who the hell was that?" she asked. Burrowes was quite surprised. She was clearly angry, but she was calm. No histrionics there. Then she added as a further thought struck her, "And why?"

  Rutherford re-entered the building and looked around. Three computers were smashed, and the mainframe had also been shot at and would presumably be damaged. Three desks would also have to be replaced, unless reminders of the gunfight were wanted.

  "What happened?" Burrowes asked.

  "He got away," Rutherford said with a sigh. "He had a motor bike, and I couldn't get off any shots because there were people in the background."

  "You're hurt," Svetlana said.

  "It's only a scratch," Rutherford replied.

  "Take off your jacket, and let's see this scratch," she continued. "You're bleeding, so we have to do something about that."

  It was a scratch, but a fairly substantial one. Apparently there was a first aid kit, and Svetlana knew where it was. She came back and liberally applied some antiseptic liquid, to which Rutherford gave a yelp, then she applied a pad and a dressing, which she tied tightly.

  "There, that will do for a bit, so Charles, ring the police while I have a look at Brian."

  She took one look at Brian, felt for a pulse, then turned and shook her head towards Rutherford, who merely nodded. "He's past any first aid," she said. "Charles, now you've made the phone call, take the boss to a hospital so he can get the wound attended to."

  "And you?" Burrowes asked.

  "I'll explain to the police what happened. As a matter of interest, just in case they ask me, where's Dennis?"

  "He rang in and said he was sick," Rutherford announced.

  "Rather convenient," Burrowes muttered.

  "You don't think he organised this?" Svetlana asked.

  "I don't think so," Rutherford said. "That so-called electrical technician was quite surprised to recognise me. He did not come looking for a gunfight, and had he wanted to kill me, there are far better ways to go about it."

  "I agree," Burrowes said. "His first move was probably to take a photograph. He only pulled that gun after he seemed to recognise the boss." He turned towards Svetlana and said, "My guess is that was one of your watchers, and apparently they were after the boss, not you, so you can rest easier."

  "Why would they be after you?" Svetlana asked Rutherford. "Do you know him?"

  "I don't know his name, but he's one of a group of low lifes I had to deal with once."

  "There may be more," Burrowes said. "Svetlana here noticed a brown car parked over the road seemingly watching who was coming and going. Maybe –"

  "Good thought," Rutherford said. "I'll go out the back, and see if I can sneak up on them."

  Svetlana began to remind him of the hospital, but it was too late. Rutherford was out the door.

  That might have been a good plan, but when Rutherford got out there, the brown car was driving off. He noticed that the driver was another of those men he had confronted when they wanted to pulverize Justin Lamont. That more or less identified them either directly or indirectly as Goldfinch's men. So Goldfinch was stepping up the game. That was interesting indeed to Rutherford.

  A rather thoughtful Rutherford came back but Burrowes took his arm and reminded him of the hospital. He reluctantly nodded acceptance as by now the wound was starting to hurt.

  Two hours later, Burrowes was back, just in time to see a police car disappearing, but when he entered, two policemen were interviewing Svetlana, and a number of forensic people were taking samples of bullets, blood and anything else they favoured. It was then Burrowes' turn to be interviewed.

  Eventually the police let them go, and Brian's body, now in a body bag, was taken away on a stretcher.

  "Well, that was different," Burrowes remarked to Svetlana. By now he had calmed down and the adrenaline rush had subsided. "That electrical guy certainly got a reaction."

  "I doubt he was an electrician," Svetlana said coldly.

  "I wouldn't bet on it," Burrowes said with a superior grin. "It wouldn't surprise me if he intended to wire in some bugs."

  Svetlana gave him a look of approval. "You might be right on that score."

  "So, who the hell was he, apart from possibly being connected to the watchers you saw?"

  "Don't know," Svetlana replied, "but I rather fancy the boss does."

  "And it doesn't look as if he's telling," Burrowes replied. He thought for a moment, then said, "If I were you, I'd be very careful going home tonight, and any other time for that matter."

  "And you don't think that applied to you?" she said.

  "Of course I'll be careful," he said, "but my earlier time with the FBI was not entirely wasted, it seems. I might be a little harder to get at than some."

  Svetlana gave a slightly surprised reaction, then she recovered and said, "Well, it's nice to know you're thinking of poor weak little Svetlana."

  He was about to respond, when he suddenly felt convinced she was teasing him. "Always thinking . . . of my coworkers," he quickly added.

  Svetlana gave a superior smile at the correction, then said, "Well, we'd better be doing something when the boss finally gets back, assuming the computers are still working."

  "Yes, time to follow up on that paint clue." This was said with a definite lack of enthusiasm. Burrowes was becoming certain that he was not going to get anywhere. He was also beginning to wonder about something else. There was a surprising shortage of information, but what little he could find was quite tempting. The real surprise was that there seemed to be no Russian slip-ups. Usually, with the best will in the world, if something is going on for years, someone makes a mistake. So far, no obvious sign of one.

  * * *

  As the day progressed, Dennis went into a sweaty funk. Suppose those men who went out to check could not find anything? There were a lot of people going in and out of the front building. There was also a back way in that he had forgotten to tell them about, and it would be just his luck if half of them did not turn up, and the others used the back route.

  The phone rang, and Dennis' nerves nearly gave out completely. One of the men answered but said nothing. He put the phone down and nodded to the other.

  "You're in luck," he said to Dennis. "You sit in that chair for ten minutes, and you'll never see us again. Try to follow, and you shall be on
the receiving end of a bullet. Understand?"

  Dennis nodded, the two men left and Dennis ran to the toilet.

  * * *

  Dennis' evening was not much better than the preceding two days. Once again Dennis heard a knock on his apartment door. He decided to ignore it. There was another knock. He ignored that too, then he realised that since his apartment light was on, whoever was there would probably realise he was in. Well, now whoever it was would realise he did not care to go to the door.

  Nothing happened for a few minutes, then his phone rang. A text message: I know you're there. Open up, or else.

  Dennis thought about the or else part, then decided that perhaps he should open the door. When he did, there was Rutherford, an arm in a sling, with two others.

  "It will be a lot less messy if you invite us in," Rutherford said. He and the two men walked in, the two men electing to stand by the door, while Rutherford took one of the two chairs that Dennis owned. Dennis slunk back, his hands now shaking.

  "Dennis, it seems to me you're a very frightened little man. The question is, why?"

  Dennis suddenly realised that he might have been better off to have opened the door promptly.

  "I don't know whether you know it or not, but we had an invasion of sorts at work today?"

  "You did?" Dennis said. "What happened?"

  From Rutherford's point of view, Dennis was unreadable. He guessed that Dennis knew something, but then again, since his arm was in a sling, he could probably guess that something was wrong. "The invader pulled a gun and . . ."

  "He shot you?" Dennis asked. Rutherford conceded that Dennis was either an extremely good actor, or he really had not expected this.

  "Yes," Rutherford said, pointing at the sling, "and Brian is dead."

  "Oh my God. What are you going to do?"

  "Nothing," Rutherford said.

  "Nothing? You're going to let them get away with –"

  "No," Rutherford said. "Hopefully not, but the police are taking this very seriously. There was a murder, and that site is government property, so there are various agencies chasing after whoever it was."