“Who were these guys?”
“One was a big fella, never spoke, huge bastard. Got no real name on him. They gave Joe bullshit names. Nick and maybe Bubba, Buddy, something like that. I don’t remember exactly. I was in the back of the room out of sight. Couldn’t hear every word they said. Like I said, the main one, the brains of the outfit, was called Caesar. Maybe they called him that ‘cause he was the boss. He ran the whole damn show. Intelligent bastard. And let me tell you, he was one cool and scary sonofabitch. The scariest. And I’ve run up against some frightening people in my line of work. I’d sooner deal with Hannibal Lecter.”
“Anything else?”
“As I said, I was in the background the whole time. I don’t think Joe knew I was even there. That’s the straight story. I swear it.”
“I believe you. And I won’t bother you again unless I find out you’ve lied to me.”
“It’s the God’s truth, Frank.”
“So long, John.”
“Wait a minute. No money?”
“No money from me,” Frank said. “I’m not paying you to bring killers to my family’s home. But you enjoy your pension.”
Dellarue hung his head, strained to rise, and shuffled down the porch steps. Frank waited until he made it to his car and drove away before he went back in the house. He locked and chained the front door and decided to use the adrenalin rush he was experiencing to clean up the mess in the parlor.
The smell of spent gunpowder hung in the still air of the room. He wiped up the whiskey and noted the small hole in the Persian rug made by the .38 bullet. He retrieved the lampshade from where it had been flung. When the lamp was rejoined with the shade, Frank noticed something on the lamp’s bulb socket. It was a bug, and not the kind you’d study in an entomology class.
The rest of the house needed a thorough search for more bugs. Frank started by checking everywhere one could be concealed in the parlor. He examined the rest of the house from ceiling fixtures down to the floorboards. Any room where conversation might take place, especially telephone conversation, was scrutinized, particularly the telephones themselves, but no other eavesdropping devices were discovered.
The next step was to find out who might’ve planted the bug in the parlor. And was it placed there before Frank arrived in Maryland. Someone may have wanted to listen in on Joe’s conversations too. That may have been the case, but Frank concentrated on more recent events. Who had been in the house? Alasdair, The CSI team, the FBI, John Dellarue? Dellarue could’ve planted the bug on a past visit to see Joe, but the FBI angle made the most sense. They recently stormed the house when Frank wasn’t there and had ample time to install the tiny device. They also had the most to gain by eavesdropping. The government was erupting over this Omega weapon issue, and pressure was coming from high up to get answers. America’s leaders were consumed by the fear that any individual or foreign faction could become the world’s new superpower. The U. S. government would spare nothing to obtain the answers they craved.
Frank had lost something because of the bug’s discovery: privacy. But he had gained a little something at the same time. The killer’s name was Caesar, or maybe Nick. And he had a big helper who likely had size 16 feet.
Not a lot, but something.
Chapter 29
It was time to get his facts straight about the end of World War II, in particular, the history concerning the surrender of Japan. He couldn’t be in a better place to do his research. He was an hour’s drive away from the greatest collection of knowledge in the universe: the Library of Congress.
The address of 101 Independence Avenue in Washington, DC consisted primarily of a group of three capacious buildings named for American forefathers Jefferson, Adams and Madison. After Frank registered and was photographed at the Madison Building, he was directed to the Jefferson Building where colonial America, and later, the United States, kept most of the accounts of her history, especially the eras of wartime.
After all these years, Frank believed the ultimate truths about the final chapter of World War II would be in print. If such information existed, it would most certainly be in the most renowned repository of world history.
He pulled out every book he could find on Japan’s last days of the war, and there were plenty of them. While minor variations in the accounts existed, undeniable consistencies dominated that era of history. Almost every authority on the subject concurred on the major points: Japan’s military believed it could win a war of invasion if the Allies came onto their shores. They also thought they could get help from Russia in the end because they believed they shared a possible kinship in their mutual hatred for China, and the Reds harbored great distrust of the United States. Japan had erred on both counts.
Frank read further and discovered that the factions that controlled the government of Japan were split and deadlocked about the surrender because the terms outlined by president Truman and the U. S. Congress, which specified unconditional surrender plus the removal of Japan’s emperor, demands they couldn’t bring themselves to accept. Of the fourteen entities that were assembled to make decisions on their country’s fate, the three votes of the Japanese military were for fighting on, five votes hung undecided, and the remaining six were for surrender, if the terms were modified. But Frank uncovered another factor that few knew was in place. He found it ironic that it was perhaps the simplest element, and one that practically no one on the American side paid much, if any, attention to.
Frank’s history lesson went on: The island of Tinian, situated in the Marianas chain in the south Pacific, a hundred miles north of Guam, was assaulted by U. S. Marines on July 24, 1945. Nine days later, they took control of the island after killing over 8,000 Japanese and capturing another 313. The island was destined to be one of the most strategic in the history of modern warfare. The island was quickly made into a workable airbase by more than a thousand Navy Seabees who prepared for American bombers, in particular, the B-29 “Silverplate” superfortresses, the only ones specially modified to carry and deliver the 10,000-pound atomic bombs. The location was perfect for staging the atomic attacks on Japan only 1,500 miles away, and backup bombers were positioned on another island a few miles away en route in case the initial bomber ran into trouble early on.
The books unfolded history stories which read like a great novel, but Frank knew everything he was taking in was something that actually happened, something too big, too photographed, reported on, and participated in to be fabricated. Reading further, his eyes danced across the pages of text and pictures. Colonel Paul Tibbets entered the stage and took command of the first B-29, the Enola Gay. He led her crew of 12 in the attack on Hiroshima on August 6, 1945 and carried out the first ever atomic bombing in the history of the world. Frank read how secrecy was paramount. Only Paul Tibbets and two others on the plane knew the mission’s actual intent.
A day before the Enola Gay was to takeoff, the insignia on her tail was changed from a depiction of a stone-hewn arrowhead to a large Helvetica “R” in a circle. One book cited that Japanese mainlanders knew about the change mere minutes from when it occurred, even sooner than Americans on the backup island only a few miles away. The amazing thing was, the message to Japan came from the island of Tinian itself.
What no one knew until well after the war was that there remained a surviving squad of Japanese soldiers hidden in an outpost in the hills of Tinian with a radio. They transmitted intelligence information to their homeland daily and were privy to practically everything about the planned missions. They knew something else that had Frank reeling in his library chair: They knew the United States only had two A-bombs, and more would not be coming for months, if ever.
The targets of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and other alternates, were chosen for many reasons, the accounts said. Prevailing weather conditions ultimately dictated which cities would be bombed, but Hiroshima and Nagasaki topped the list. They were cities which contained few, if any, allied prisoner of war camps. They weren’t of grea
t religious, military, or strategic significance, and acceptable weather conditions had been predicted for August. Frank now gleaned from this retrospective history lesson that the atomic bombings would not have brought about the surrender the United States so desperately wanted. It would’ve taken something else, something more fearsome.
Frank was now certain the work of his grandfather and his colleagues was effective in bringing about the unconditional surrender of Japan. He also realized it was of the utmost urgency that he, and he alone, find the solution to the Omega formula’s enigma.
The possible outcome of his failure was unimaginable.
Chapter 30
The picture of William and the other man in the NASA lab was troubling. Frank needed to know who the unnamed man was. He now thought the man might be key to every fact he was scrambling to gather. He knew NASA had a website which provided an email response form he could use to contact the agency for general questions, but he discovered they would not respond to questions concerning photographs. He decided to contact NASA directly in Houston, Texas. He would use his grandfather’s name to gain access to what he wanted. It had been decades since William worked there, but Frank hoped someone would remember him. Frank dialed their number knowing the odds were against him.
After being transferred to four different departments, Frank connected with a man in the engineering division.
“Dan Balfour,” the man said. “How can I help you?”
“I’m the grandson of William Dugan, a physicist who worked for NASA in the ‘70s and ‘80s,” Frank said.
“Ah. What did he do for us?”
“He helped design implements used in space, tools for the moon missions.”
“I see. That was quite a while back. Before my time here. So what can I do for you?”
“I have a photo of my grandfather standing with another man in a NASA laboratory. They both are wearing NASA lab coats. I’d like to know who the other man is.”
“From more than thirty years ago? I’m not sure─”
“How about if I email the photo to you and you can ask around?”
“I don’t know, sir…”
“I’m a police officer and this is very important.”
“Oh, man, this sounds like something out of my hands.”
“No one’s going to subpoena you, Mr. Balfour. I just need to ID the man in the photo. Simple as that. There’s no crime involved here. It only concerns my own family history.”
“Nothing criminal?”
“Nothing. What’s your email address?”
Frank emailed Balfour and attached his scan of the photo.
* * * * *
It was time to head south and return to his day job. Frank was weary of the calls from the Today Show, Good Morning America, Fox News, Leno, Letterman and every radio talk show from Howard Stern to Rush Limbaugh. What the hell happened to privacy? Could anyone at all get your non-published home phone number? Even your cell? And now William’s house had been bugged. He’d done all he could in Maryland. It was time to button up Elm Terrace and get out of there.
Frank carefully tucked the folder with the copies of the Omega files, William’s memos, and the NASA photo inside the lining of his suitcase and re-glued it in place. He memorized the poem and burned the original.
Frank left Catonsville feeling he’d done all he could to “sanitize” the house for the time being. He knew he’d need to come back to sell the estate and make decisions about the three vehicles.
* * * * *
Frank got into his unmarked cruiser at the Orlando airport and drove the 95 miles south to Martin County. After two hours he was crossing the Roosevelt Bridge and wending his way down U. S. 1 to Colorado Avenue. It was Sunday night and Stuart, Florida never looked so good as Frank motored under the street lights of Ocean Boulevard and headed east toward the sea. A right on Krueger Parkway, a right on Stafford Drive, and he’d be home. His house was near the Indian River, the last body of water between Stuart proper and the beautiful Hutchinson Island beaches on the Atlantic. Frank was glad to be back in Paradise.
He pulled into the driveway in front of the white stucco and Spanish tile bungalow and parked. The sun had set in the west hours ago, but its 90-degree heat was still toasting the air.
Frank called Roland before he went into the house. He wanted to get police business out of the way before he flopped on the sofa to watch some TV and tapped into a cold beer.
“I’m back. See you first thing in the morning,” Frank said.
“I want you to work nights this week,” Roland said.
“Good. I like nights.”
“I’ll be here when you check in and we can catch up.”
“Any more from the NSA?”
“Been quiet.”
“No murders?”
“That’s implied in the phrase ‘been quiet.’ Save your stupid questions until tomorrow night,” Roland said and hung up.
* * * * *
He climbed out of the cruiser and started to go to the front door, but stopped short. He pulled the pistol from his holster and took a small LED flashlight from his pocket, skirted around the house to the back yard and checked the doors and windows where he’d placed paper matches, poised to drop if anyone opened them. The matches were all in place, so he returned to the front of the house and checked the matches above the door. Many of his neighbors could view the front of his house, and while he didn’t think any suspicious entry would go unnoticed, he wasn’t going to place complete trust in that. Vigilant neighbors or not, Frank wasn’t about to get caught flatfooted again by the government or anyone else in or around his home.
The inside of the house harbored hot, musty air from the July sun that beat down on the roof by day, unaided by air conditioning. He turned the thermostat on the A/C down to 68 degrees, opened the fridge and let the coolness inside wash his face, and opened a beer.
Frank toured the rooms, turning on ceiling fans. He figured the house would be tolerable in an hour. What he didn’t figure on were the jalousie window slats lying broken on the terrazzo floor of the bathroom.
* * * * *
Frank hadn’t placed his matchstick tells in his bathroom window because it was high up on the wall and not a likely entrance to the house. The screen was missing and there were enough glass slats removed to allow a Cape buffalo entry. The question was: What had been taken?
Frank searched the rooms like he would any other crime scene. He found the most evidence in the office he’d transformed out of the second bedroom. There were desk drawers pulled out and papers strewn everywhere, but the real loss was at his computer. The cover was off and the hard drive was missing from its slot. Practically every business and personal detail relating to his life was on that drive.
“Roland, someone’s been in my house,” Frank said on his cell. “Looks like they got into my computer. Send the forensic techs out to my place to check it out.”
“I told you to install security cams at your house. I could be sitting here in my office right now looking at the perps’ kissers on my machine.”
“And I told you, cut back on the subs and pizzas and you might live to make 60. We’re both wasting our breath. Now can you get me a couple of techs or will I have to call David Caruso at CSI Miami?”
* * * * *
“Nothing yet from forensics, detective,” Corporal Greg Martinez said. “It’s only been two days. They may come up with something.”
Frank nodded his thanks and headed for Roland Brand’s office.
Frank framed himself in the office doorway. The sheriff was looking at a small box sealed with tape.
“This came for you an hour ago,” Roland said, pushing the box toward Frank. “No return address.”
Frank cut open the box with a pocket knife and looked inside.
“It’s my hard drive.”
“Do you know more than you let on about this Omega thing?”
“Don’t go there, Roland.”
“Maybe I can help.”<
br />
“I wish you could, but I don’t want anyone else involved in this mess.”
“Who would want your computer data?” Roland asked.
“Everyone in the government down to the congressional pages.”
“The government sends back things they steal? Not in my experience with the bastards.”
“Maybe because there’s nothing on that drive about the Omega weapon,” Frank said. “And maybe I have a friend somewhere in the government.”
“I’m putting an unmarked car on your house.”
“I know you don’t have unlimited resources here, but it’d be appreciated.”
“I had the state guys alerted. They’ll do their best to cover your back. What’s going on in Maryland with your dad’s murder.
“I got a name. Now I have to find him.”
“That’s something,” Roland said
Frank strode for the door and stopped.
“You think forensics can get something off this disk drive,” Frank asked.
“You might want to rethink that if you’ve been surfing ‘Girls Gone Wild in Daytona” and the like.”
“Bad thought. Never mind.”
* * * * *
Frank called Alasdair from his tiki bar and sipped on a scotch. While he wasn’t comfortable making an appearance back in Maryland at the moment, he wasn’t going to stop gathering all the intelligence he could. Alasdair could be the ally he needed to do precisely that.
“Hey, partner,” Frank said. “It’s not a lot safer here than up there. My house got ransacked. They got the hard drive off my computer.”
The Omega Formula: Power to Die For (Detective Frank Dugan) Page 14