by Archer Mayor
“I will,” Willy said immediately. “Sammie was just on, and you’re in no shape to do anything. Go home, get some sleep. I’ll call you when I want out.”
He drove us to where Sammie had stashed her car and left us there.
Five minutes down the road, she asked, “Feeling better?”
I laughed and rubbed my eyes. “Who’d have thought Willy Kunkle could ever pull you out of the dumps?”
· · ·
Sammie drove into the Meetinghouse Hill Cemetery, where Kunkle had picked me up, and killed the engine. “This okay?” she asked.
I’d been so lost in thought, I’d barely noticed we’d stopped. I looked up and glanced around. “Sure,” I said, but I didn’t get out of the car.
She didn’t press me, sitting quietly, waiting.
“Why do you think Antonov came to the inn?” I asked at last.
I saw her frown in the reflected moonlight. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it was like Willy said—he wanted to put the squeeze on Rarig.”
“All the way from Russia? Leaving behind the most lucrative black market in the world?”
“Then to kill him for some past grudge?”
“Okay. Why right now?”
Sammie remained silent.
“Try this on,” I said. “When J.P. and I first visited the inn, Rarig played the genial host. At one point, he pulled out a recent New York Times piece featuring the place. It was very flattering—a big spread—but he kept it in a drawer out of sight. In the entranceway there are plaques from one gourmet magazine or another and the usual promotional material, so why not a blurb from one of the biggest publications in the country?”
“It say anything incriminating?”
“I didn’t read it carefully, but I doubt it. He knew we were cops by then—local cops. Remember what Willy said? ‘Think local, act local.’ I think that’s key. The one thing about that article is that the photographer caught Rarig only once, in a mirror, looking like he couldn’t wait for them all to go away. You ever hear about the Windham Hill Inn before all this?”
“Sure—one of the fanciest around, along with the two in Newfane.”
“Ever seen a picture of Rarig?”
She hesitated before staring at me. “No. You saying Antonov saw the picture in Russia, and that’s why he came over?”
“The New York Times is known all over the world. Rarig’s not his real name, and I bet it wasn’t when he was operating overseas. After he pulled out of the business and came up here, as far as his old enemies are concerned, he fell off the end of the earth. And I’m not saying it was Antonov who saw the article. I think it was his boss.”
“Georgi Padzhev.”
“Right. I think Willy hit the nail on the head tonight without even realizing it. He thought Kidder and Rarig told us all about Vienna because it was on their minds. But they knew what they were doing—that’s why they were so chatty. They were seeing how we’d react. Why, I don’t know yet.”
“I also think Willy’s right about Rarig not killing Antonov but disposing of his body.”
“Why one and not the other?”
“To buy time. Maybe to slip back into the shadows. Here’s a guy who’s spent his whole life with assumed names, foreign languages, probably even disguises, for all I know. He finds a body from the old days on his lawn. If he calls the cops, the press’ll climb all over it, and we’ll be digging into his past. Out of the question. So he dumps it—he knows where and when to go—and he washes his hands of it. ’Course, as Willy pointed out, he goofed. But it was a good plan.”
“Just so he can go back to being an inn owner?” Sammie interrupted.
“People generally do things for a reason,” I explained. “Burn buildings for the insurance, rob banks for the money. If killing Antonov and leaving his body was a message to Rarig, then hiding that body deprives the sender of any feedback—it forces whoever killed Antonov to do something more—something Rarig is hoping he’ll see coming this time.”
“Except we did find the body,” Sammie pointed out.
“But nobody knows we linked it to Rarig, not officially.”
Sammie slumped her head forward and placed both her palms against her face. Her voice was muffled by her fingers. “So what, Joe? What’s it all mean?”
“What I think it means,” I said tentatively, “is that Antonov was sent out to serve one purpose and ended up serving another. Padzhev saw Rarig’s picture. Antonov flew over here to check him out. Somebody—maybe Snowden, maybe an old enemy of Rarig’s, maybe even an enemy of Padzhev’s—knocked him off and left his body as a calling card, which Rarig then tried to make disappear. Presumably, had he succeeded, Rarig was hoping things would end there—Padzhev might even think Antonov never got to Vermont. But the cat’s out of the bag, so now we’re all in for something more—what, I don’t know. And I’m not sure Rarig does, either.”
Sammie was staring out the window before her. “So, he actually doesn’t know who killed Antonov, even though he fingered Snowden?”
“I think that’s right.”
“But Rarig remains a lightning rod of some kind, like Willy said, and for some specific reason.”
“Right again.”
“And Kidder’s his inside contact.”
“That’s my bet.”
“But if Snowden didn’t kill Antonov, why did he try to kill you?”
I didn’t answer at first. So many pieces of this puzzle were interconnected, seemingly on a three-dimensional frame, that I was finding it impossible to nail any one of them in place. “Maybe he didn’t,” I admitted.
She stared at me, her mouth half-open. “Then who, Joe? And who, if not Snowden, is framing you now?”
“I don’t know, but I think it all hangs on Rarig.”
· · ·
As confusing, taxing, and seemingly futile as the night had been, I found for the first time in days that I could sleep soundly. A catharsis had been achieved, like the bursting of a dam, and it had released the almost paralytic pressure I’d been storing up for days. There were no obvious immediate solutions, of course. But where I’d seen only blank canyon walls before, now I was focusing on finding a way out.
My only regret, which clung to me like a dull and chronic pain, was that I couldn’t share any of this with Gail.
· · ·
Willy called the next morning. “Kidder flew the coop,” he said.
“Around eight.”
“Back to Langley?”
“I think so. I tailed her for a while, but I didn’t want to leave Rarig for too long.”
“He stay put?”
“So far. Sammie’s got him now. Something else, though—there’s been a killing up in Middlebury. Another Russian.”
I straightened, almost dropping the phone. “No shit.”
“Yeah, Just came over the wire. A drive-by. Guy was a prof at the college. Supposedly an old-time dissident immigrant, dating back to the sixties. Got whacked in front of something called the Geonomics Center, on campus.”
“No spook connections?”
“Not yet. No leads anywhere. Like I said, it’s brand new. I’ll dig into it, though, using the Boris case as camouflage. I got a friend in the department up there.”
A beep echoed in my ear, indicating another call coming in. I hung up on Willy and answered.
“It’s Sam,” said the voice at the other end, sounding tense. “I got a bit of a situation here.”
“What?”
There was a rustling sound, and another voice came on. “This is Rarig. We need to talk.”
All semblance of last night’s rambling host was gone. Rarig was clearly on edge. Something, I thought, was moving in the woods.
“I can’t be there for several hours.”
“You get here now.”
“It’ll mean missing my check-in at the barracks. They’ll issue a warrant for my arrest.”
“I can clear you of all that crap. I need you and your two friends, but it�
��s got to be immediately.”
“We going to Middlebury?”
It was a shot in the dark. I almost heard the thud as he fell.
“How the hell did you know that?”
“Who was the guy?”
“Nobody. They hit the wrong target. I need to save the real one. I can’t reach him by phone, and anyway, I think they found him by tapping my line.”
“Is that why they killed Antonov? To flush out the real quarry?”
“He read about Antonov in the papers. He got nervous and called me. Olivia came up to see what we could do. We thought we had a handle on it till this happened.” His voice suddenly broke. “You’re wasting time, Lieutenant. You coming or not?”
“Not yet, and you’re not moving without backup, so don’t bullshit me. What phone are you on right now?”
“Your partner’s portable. I dug her out of her hiding spot. I can tell you people don’t do this for a living.”
“Don’t be a smartass, John. You need us. Who’s the guy we’re supposed to be saving?”
“He’s a defector. The one I mentioned last night that Angleton locked up for two years ’cause he thought he was a plant.”
“Why not call in the cavalry?” I asked.
“It might be the cavalry that’s hunting him.” Rarig’s exasperation was as clear as his voice was becoming loud.
“You’re not going to give me your ‘Snowden’s-the-bad-guy’ spiel again, are you? I’m a little less gullible today.”
“God damn you, Gunther. I’m asking you to help me save a man’s life. That’s supposed to be what the police are for. I don’t know who’s trying to take him out, and I don’t know why, but I’ve got to do what I can. I’ll get you cleared of your legal problems—I’ve got the evidence you want—but I need you now.”
“Give the phone back to Sammie and walk out of earshot.”
I waited a few moments after Sam got back on. “He a safe distance away?” I asked.
“Yeah. Sorry for the screwup.”
“I don’t care about that. He’s right. Snooping on people isn’t our job. What do you think of all this?”
“That you leave the county? You’d be crazy. This creep’s been lying to us since we met him.”
“He sounds genuine now.”
“He looks genuine, but it could all be cock-and-bull, and you’d pay the price big time.”
“Willy called me about the shooting in Middlebury. That part’s legit. How did it come down at your end?”
“I saw him through the window on the phone ten minutes ago. He was pacing back and forth, waving his arm. Then, all of a sudden, he flies out of the house, makes a beeline for me like I was standing in the middle of a road, and demands to talk to you on my phone. He is seriously worked up.”
“This could be the break we’re looking for, Sam.”
I could almost feel her anxiety. “Jesus. It’s all so tied up in knots, who’s to tell? Willy says they use people like Kleenex. It’s a hell of a risk.”
“My other option looks like a dead certainty. Even if Richard gets me off, my career’s toast.”
She was utterly silent for a moment, before pointing out, “Rarig hasn’t said what he wants yet.”
“Put him back on, then.”
A few moments later, Rarig demanded, “Are you in or not?”
“What’s your plan?”
“My God. I hope to hell you’re not on your department’s SWAT team. All your hostages would die of old age.”
“Sam and I are both on the team, and we’re also alive to prove it. What’s your plan?”
“I don’t know yet,” he conceded. “I need to get up there, find him, and get him to safe ground.”
“You sure he’s still in Middlebury?”
“He should be. When we moved him there, he and I picked out a priest hole he could use in an emergency.”
“Is that where he called you from?”
“It doesn’t have a phone. It has a signaling device he’s supposed to trigger when he gets there, but he either didn’t use it or he never arrived. That’s why I want help.”
“All right,” I finally agreed. “I’ll come, but alone. I won’t jeopardize the other two.”
He barely hesitated. “Fine, just get here.”
Chapter 15
I DIDN'T FLY OUT OF THE HOUSE after Rarig’s call for help. If anything, his impatience slowed me down, making me as careful as he seemed to have become impulsive. I packed a bag with every tactical necessity I could think of, including several weapons, and made sure the house was secure before I left. I longed to leave Gail a note and finally settled for a simple “I love you” on the icebox chalkboard, confident that sooner or later she’d see it.
The reason I knew she’d come by—maybe even move back in—was because I was also aware of how my departure would be received. For the violator of court-ordered condition of release to also be a cop compounds the sin exponentially. Any judge would feel the added insult—Harrowsmith more than most. None of which took into account the predictable howl from Fred Coffin’s publicity machine.
Within a half hour of my no-show at the West Brattleboro barracks, a fugitive arrest warrant would be issued statewide, complete with description, photograph, and known contacts. One accidental sighting by a single cop anywhere in Vermont—and there were hundreds who knew me at a glance—would mean attention unlike any I’d ever received before. If Richard Levay thought he’d had a hard case before, he was about to start feeling like Clarence Darrow at the Scopes trial—assuming he didn’t wash his hands of me altogether.
And yet I felt no real trepidation as I set out toward the Windham Hill Inn. What I’d told Sammie had been the absolute truth. As I saw it, this was my only remaining option. It didn’t matter if Rarig was lying about clearing my name. It didn’t matter if we failed to locate his terrified defector. I wasn’t entirely sure it mattered if nothing turned out as anyone was expecting. The point now was simply to create some random, spontaneous action—a move so utterly against my character that it would fall outside the boundaries imagined by whoever had set me up. As I saw it, I had to knock at least a single support beam to the ground and hope the whole structure followed suit.
These reflections so occupied my mind that when I reached the Windham Hill Inn and saw Rarig and Sammie waiting for me, it felt like I’d just hung up on them.
That impression was not shared by John Rarig. “You took long enough,” he barked at me, pulling open my door.
I didn’t bother responding. Grabbing a small canvas bag from the backseat, I asked, “Which one’s your car?”
Sammie was watching me nervously. “You think this through?”
I gave her a half smile, following Rarig’s pointed finger toward a dark green Ford Explorer. “The point is not to think—surprise the opposition into reacting.”
She fell into step beside me. “You’ll need backup.”
“Maybe, but you won’t be it. I don’t need your busted career on my conscience—if it isn’t too late already.”
She jerked a thumb at Rarig, who was circling the car to get behind the wheel. “If he clears you, I’ll be cleared, too.”
I opened the back door and threw my bag inside. “Nice try, Sam. You already told me you thought he was full of shit.”
She opened her mouth to say more, but I held up my hand. “Don’t. Besides, I need you to stick your neck out in another way. If they find my car here, it won’t take ’em long to start looking for Rarig.”
“Right,” she agreed, caught off guard.
“So ditch it somewhere and cross your fingers. Okay?”
The logic spoke for itself, but her voice was tinged with both sadness and longing. “Okay. Good luck.”
I swung into the seat next to Rarig. “You, too. And promise me you and Willy will work together to cover your asses. I want you both employed when I get back.”
I looked through the rear window as Rarig headed down the driveway. Sammie was standin
g in the parking lot, her hands by her sides, looking as vulnerable as a lost child in a bus station. I knew it was both momentary and misleading—that cool and decisive action would soon reassert itself—but in that brief moment, I was struck by the loyalty of the friendship between us and hoped to hell I hadn’t burned her by proximity.
· · ·
I waited until we’d gotten onto Route 30, heading north toward Middlebury, before I asked my still visibly tense driver, “Not that you’ll tell me the truth, but who is it we’re trying to save?”
He gave me a startled look. “You don’t believe me? Then why are you here?”
“Personal reasons. Who is it?”
“His name’s Lewis Corbin-Teich—at least that’s what he goes by now. His old name’s not important.”
“Who made that one up? A committee?”
Rarig actually laughed. “No. He did. Like you said, personal reasons. He’s a sentimental man. I just asked him to come up with something that couldn’t be traced back to him or members of his family. That’s what he chose.”
“And he works at the college?” I was watching Rarig’s hands on the wheel, the blanching of his knuckles. A field operative once, and obviously used to tension, he’d apparently lost the instinct over time. I hoped a little conversation would calm him down, for both our sakes.
“Yes. The language department. Russian’s very big at Middlebury. There’s a huge immigrant population there, a Russian/U.S. think tank, a refugee housing complex for Bosnians, lots of conferences and meetings throughout the year. That’s why he fit in from the start.”
“Weren’t you worried someone would recognize him?”
“His own mother probably wouldn’t. He wears a full beard, and he’s had plastic surgery. He’s just another guy with an accent now.”
“You said Angleton locked him up and dismissed everything he had to offer. What happened after that?”
He paused to pass a slower driver on an inside curve, thankfully with no ill effects. “Two years later, other sources confirmed what he’d told us. Angleton never admitted being wrong, but he let him out—it was as close to an apology as you could get. Unfortunately, it also meant Lew was useless to us. I’m the one who came up with the teaching idea, set up the contacts, established the cover, and got him tucked away. The way we’d treated him was no different from what the Soviets did, but no one seemed to pick up on that. They were all hot to move on to the next item on the list.”