A big hand slammed on the desk. “All right!” Drucker bellowed. “Let’s cut the shit right now! What the hell’s going on here?”
Ted rose to his feet and said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m about to talk with the feds. The guys Tommy was meeting. You’re welcome to come along if you like.”
There was genuine fear in the eyes now. Not fear of Ted Kowalczyk, but fear of another kind. The feds had power. Lots of power. The kind of power that could end a local cop’s career. Alvin Drucker may have been a world-wise cop, but he wasn’t very good at hiding his emotions.
“As far as I’m concerned,” he said, “the case is closed. I got no reason to hassle anyone.”
“Supposing,” Ted asked, “Tommy was murdered? Would that be of interest to you?”
Drucker scowled. “Murdered! There’s no evidence to suggest that. There’s no motive either. Nobody had a beef, near as we can tell. You’ve been watching too much television, Kowalczyk.”
Ted started toward the door and stopped. He turned and asked, “Who talked to you, Drucker?”
“What?”
“I asked who it was who talked to you. I told you that I knew who the people were that were the last to see Tommy and yet you have no interest in talking with them. That means you’ve already talked to someone. Who was it?”
“You’re crazy,” Drucker said. “We talked to his employers. That was enough.”
Ted shook his head. “No, it isn’t. It’s never enough for you guys. There’s a hole there. Seven or eight hours that are unaccounted for. You guys never close a case until you have the holes filled in. Except this one. Somebody talked to you. Who was it?”
“I told you,” Drucker protested, his eyes wary again. “The whole thing is classified. The case is closed. That’s all I got to say.”
Ted stood there and stared at him for a moment. Then he turned and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him. Just before heading down the stairs, he stopped, turned around and returned to Drucker’s office. The door was still closed and Drucker’s secretary was hard at work typing reports, her back to Ted.
He put his ear next to the frosted glass and tried to hear what was being said inside the office.
Drucker was on the phone.
“… says he’s gonna look into it. I thought you oughta know.”
For a moment, silence. Then, “Well, I don’t like it. I think you better have that letter of authorization here before the day is over or I’m gonna have to take this to the chief, like I said. I don’t mind cooperating with you guys but there’s a limit, you know?”
Ted didn’t want to press his luck. He moved quietly away from the frosted glass and headed downstairs. In seconds, he was out of the police station, more convinced than ever that something was very, very wrong.
Ten
* * *
Robert Graves hung up the phone and cursed under his breath. Would it never end? It was like trying to nail Jello to the wall, keeping the lid on this, potentially the most dangerous situation with which he’d ever been associated.
In all his years of public service, he’d never experienced what one could call fear. He was a problem solver. He and the other members of his think tank, of which he was executive director as well as spokesman, would be asked to assess a situation and provide various options, rating them on a scale. The actual decision would be made by someone else.
Usually, the preferred option was the one that was implemented because the wisdom, both perceived and demonstrated, was almost unassailable. Graves was known to possess an I.Q. of over 175 and was rarely, if ever, wrong. At least, that’s how it seemed. There were times when his advice was rejected, usually with near-tragic results.
He was considered a genius at anticipating the human response to any given situation. It had been a lifelong obsession of his, first as a student, then as an academic, and now, as a highly paid consultant with only one client, the Pentagon.
At first, he’d used his intellect to make money, working for an advertising company that had made millions quickly and showed no hesitancy in sharing their riches with him. But money was not the thing that made him tick.
Power made him tick.
It gave his already prodigious ego an additional lift when he would advise the rich and the famous and the powerful and they would bow and scrape and exhibit further evidence that he was imbued with some mystical insights not normally associated with mere humans.
It wasn’t just the brilliance that he’d inherited, locked mysteriously in strands of DNA. It was his capacity to work. To study. To absorb great quantities of information relating to the human condition. And now, at the peak of his powers, his name was whispered with reverence.
It had been his idea to set up the National Disaster Alert Team, charged with the responsibility of providing reasonable courses of action in the event of catastrophes, be they natural or unnatural. There were others engaged in the same activity, to be sure. Every branch of government had a department that went through the same machinations as NADAT. But his department, attached to the Pentagon, was the one with the power.
His department was the one that could move generals with a phone call. Make politicians blanch at the mention of his name.
It was all so secret, and yet, they all knew him.
And he loved it.
Except when there were problems like this one.
Usually, they discussed potential disasters in the comfortable environs of total secrecy. NADAT was a division of the Pentagon whose functions were protected by a veil of secrecy that even excluded the most senior people in the government. Very few of their discussions ever saw the light of day, and when they did, it was only to reaffirm the legendary accuracy of their suppositions.
But this situation was different.
Vance Gifford had threatened to make his report public, despite full knowledge of the consequences. Very unprofessional. Then, to Graves’s horror, he’d learned that the very man picked to verify Gifford’s work had himself threatened similar action. Both of these men had been dealt with in the only way that made any sense.
There was the fear that the insurance industry association funding Dalton Research was itself in possession of some of the data. That was bad enough.
Now there were two additional threats. The Michael Davis situation was being handled with dispatch, but the other … A man, an insurance investigator no less, looking into the death of Thomas Wilson. More problems. Before deciding what to do, Graves needed to know more about this man.
He switched on his computer and modem. Within minutes, he was tied in to one of the giant Pentagon computers and running a search on the name one of his staff people had received from Sergeant Drucker. It shouldn’t take too long, he thought to himself. There weren’t that many people with the name Kowalczyk living in California.
He was right. The screen lit up with the information he was seeking. A few seconds of perusal convinced him that this was his man. He hit the print key and watched as the information was transformed into hard copy. It filled eleven pages.
Kowalczyk, Theodore Joseph.
Born: Los Angeles, June 23, 1950.
Caucasian, Complexion: fair. Hair: brown. Eyes: brown.
Height: 6’ 4”. Weight: 215.
Scars: Bullet wound on chest. Bullet wound on stomach. (see reference 32)
Marital Status: Widower (see reference 32)
The file was a storehouse of pertinent information. Ted’s high school records, his military service record detailing his two-year stint in Vietnam, his college records, his marriage date, a short profile on Erica, his security clearance at the time of his joining the FBI. A follow-up clearance done three years later. Excerpts from his fitness reports when he was an agent.
There were references to his present employers. A psychological profile, financial records, sexual preferences, even notations regarding his maternal grandfather, a man who’d died in the Warsaw ghetto in 1943, and his paternal grandfather, who’d
died in Treblinka’s notorious gas chambers.
That little detail, thought Graves, explained why the man had not Americanized his name, like many others with strange, European monikers. For this man, changing his name would be like turning his back on his dead grandfathers. It would be unthinkable and no amount of persuasion or ridicule could move such a man.
Graves looked for confirmation of his judgment. Yes, it was there.
Yes.
Kowalczyk was considered bright, energetic, hardworking, stubborn, imbued with a clear sense of values that were unwavering. Until the death of his wife and child, he’d been considered a comer, in the best sense of the word, by his superiors in the bureau. The tragedy had affected him deeply, but he was now coping well, working without the crutches of drugs or alcohol, seemingly putting his life in order.
It was a pattern. There’d been other times when his life had been severely disrupted, and each time, he’d taken his lumps and come back, seemingly stronger than before.
Both of Kowalczyk’s parents had died relatively young, probably as a result of deprivations suffered during the war. They’d spent six years in the Polish underground, coming to America in 1947. The father had died in 1963 of cancer and the mother in 1975, again, of cancer. Ted had been the only child of the union.
Under the heading of college activities, both on and off campus, Graves found the name of Thomas Wilson. Wilson was listed as a close friend of Ted’s during their college days. Surprisingly, there was no current information on the status of their friendship.
Graves put down the file and stared into space, thinking.
Here was a man who was trained to be suspicious. The death of Tommy Wilson would stand out like a red flag waving in the wind.
He wasn’t a bumbler. He was a skilled professional who would know he was stepping into a hornet’s nest even before he started his quest. Kowalczyk was a problem, no question. He’d used the name NADAT when talking to Drucker. That meant his investigation wasn’t simple curiosity. It meant Wilson had done some talking before being taken out of the picture.
Damn!
For years, Graves had asked for his own special force of men who would be authorized to carry out certain tasks at his bidding. Time after time, he’d been refused. He’d have to use the FBI, he’d been told.
It was ridiculous. In the first place, the FBI was subject to public scrutiny. NADAT wasn’t. It was insane to have a super-secret agency dependent on people whose every move could someday be made public.
In the second place, there were times when there were obvious conflicts. Like this case. Kowalczyk was a former FBI man. That was bad enough. He was a threat to the entire operation. But it would be asking for trouble to expect FBI men to handle him the way he should be handled. Not until Graves knew a lot more about his possible actions. At the same time, they couldn’t afford to give him too long a string. He’d have to be watched. If he got too close, Graves would have to resort to other means.
Damn!
He looked at reference 32. It contained data concerning the events surrounding the death of Kowalczyk’s wife and child. And the name of another man almost leaped from the page.
George Belcher!
The very man assigned to keep an eye on Kowalczyk was a former FBI associate!
Robert Graves stared at the name in shock. It was too much of a coincidence to be anything but a horrible portent.
Attorney David Rosen leaned forward and looked into the eyes of a distraught Mary Davis.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Davis, but I don’t know what else I can do. The people at both the Pentagon and the hospital have been most cooperative. They’re prepared to give me depositions, they’ve shown me documentation and …”
“Lies!” she exclaimed. “All lies!”
Rosen sighed and shook his head. “I can understand how you feel, Mrs. Davis, but you must accept the fact that your husband was treated for depression once before. In fact, he withheld that information from the Department of Defense when he was hired.
“As I told you, my associate interviewed the people at the hospital and he saw the bruises on those who were attacked. There’s no question that an assault took place. The evidence clearly supports their claim that your husband left the hospital of his own free will, after attacking three hospital employees. Other witnesses have spoken to the problem with alcohol. You’ve confirmed that your husband has studied the martial arts, so you know he’s physically capable of doing this. All in all, everyone we’ve talked to has been most forthcoming.”
“What about the phone call?”
Rosen took a deep breath and said, “The doctors who were treating your husband have stated that paranoia is common in these situations. Right now, it appears that your husband is suffering from a serious mental disorder. He needs treatment. I’d suggest that you return to your home and, hopefully, he’ll contact you again. Dr. Williams has asked that you come and talk to him. He wants to discuss with you the things that you might say to your husband to encourage him to come home and get the treatment he needs.”
Mary Davis took a tissue from her handbag and dabbed at her swollen eyes. “You’re sure about this?”
The attorney nodded and said, “I’m absolutely sure, Mrs. Davis. No one is trying to hurt your husband. In fact, they’re very concerned about him and want to help him.”
Eleven
* * *
By 1:30 in the afternoon, a thoroughly frustrated Ted Kowalczyk was beginning to feel the full weight of the enormous problem that confronted him. Initially, he’d been stunned by the information contained in the report he’d received from Tommy, but now, in spite of the pressure, or perhaps because of it, his mind was functioning properly, carefully analyzing the data and considering the options open to him. They were frightfully few.
He needed to be careful. Tommy’s death was, in his opinion, no accident. Ted further believed that Tommy was correct in assuming that Vance Gifford’s death was no accident either. Obviously, both men were murdered for a reason. Clearly, it was because they were the possessors of information that was considered too dangerous to be made public. Information that was now in the hands of Ted Kowalczyk. He would certainly meet the same fate if he failed to act with reasoned care.
Everywhere he turned, doors were closing in his face, in what was clearly a concerted effort to keep the lid on tight. Drucker had called someone and warned them that Ted was looking into things. Even before that call was placed, a series of events had taken place that looked extremely suspicious.
For one, Dalton Research was closed. A single sheet of white paper had been taped to the inside of the thick glass on the door, stating that the firm was in Chapter 7. All inquiries were directed to the trustee.
The trustee, a man named Rose, was out of town for a few days. A death in the family, Ted was told.
Tommy had written down the name and address of the man from NADAT. Someone named Jason Shubert, who operated out of a small office in Menlo Park. Under his own name, of course. The building directory listed him as a business consultant.
He wasn’t there. The office was locked. This time, there was no indication as to why.
The police report had indicated that the hulk of Tommy’s burned-out car had been taken to a compound outside San Jose.
It wasn’t there either.
The man who looked after the compound said that the car had been written off by the insurance appraiser and hauled away to a scrap yard.
When Ted arrived at the scrap yard, he found that they, with uncommon haste, had reduced the car to a two-foot-square cube of twisted metal that was, at this very moment, on its way to a metal reclamation factory in Gary, Indiana.
A second visit to Shubert’s office had again been fruitless. He was listed in the telephone directory, but the outgoing message on the answering machine was like a hundred others. A disembodied female voice apologizing for the fact that no one could come to the phone right at the moment, but if you’d leave your name �
��
Ted decided to give Frank Leach another call. He stood in the street and punched a series of numbers into the pay phone outside Shubert’s office building. When Frank came to the phone, he sounded considerably more upset than he had been earlier in the day.
“Don’t you ever do that to me again, you sonofabitch!” he yelled, the noise practically rattling the earpiece. “I don’t deserve being hung up on. You want my help, you treat me with some goddam respect!”
“Listen, Frank,” Ted replied, some heat in his own voice, “I don’t have time for this. If I hung up on you it was because you were pushing too hard. If you want to help, help. If not, we’ll say goodbye right now!”
“Ted, babe,” Frank replied, his voice uncharacteristically and suddenly warm, “I’m comin’ out there tonight. You’re into something that’s just too damn big. I want to help.”
Ted, staring down the street as he stood by the pay telephone, found his attention drawn by a particular car parked about a half-block away. “Not yet, Frank,” he said, his eyes fixed on the car. “I need you there.”
“Listen to me! I’ve just been visited by two people from the FBI, for chrissakes! They wanted to know where the hell I heard the name NADAT!”
Ted’s attention was now completely on Frank. “What’d you tell them?”
“The truth! What the hell else could I do? I told them that you’d mentioned the name because it had come up in an investigation you were doing and that’s all I knew. They seemed upset, babe. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn this phone is tapped. I got a guy comin’ in to check it out, but in the meantime, you better not say anything. This really pisses me off.”
Ted’s attention returned to the car. There were two men sitting in it. A real tip-off. He seemed to remember having seen the car before in his travels, as he made his way from office to office, compound to junkyard. At the time, he hadn’t given it a thought, but now, as he replayed the morning’s activities in his mind’s eye, a mind jarred by the paranoia of Frank Leach, he could recall it clearly. The car was never behind him but always in front, one or two cars away. One minute it would be there and then it would be gone. A plain, gray Ford, working a tail the way a well-trained agent would function. Keeping the subject behind him. Rear-end tails were too easy to spot. The average person never suspected they’d be followed from in front.
The Big One Page 11