by James Ward
“Okay, Mort. I’ve got it open.” Steck saw photos of marsh banks, herons contrasted against a threatening sky and a zodiac with four figures in it. “I’ll play with the photos for a bit and see what I can make of it.”
“Call me if you get any ideas or leads, Bob. I hear Susie Deet’s got some good stuff for you to follow-up.”
“That’s right,” Steck replied. “She’s pretty good.”
“I knew you’d like her work. Call me, y’hear?” Lindsley clicked off.
Steck sat back, rubbed a bit of tiredness from his eyes, then finished up his notes and closed the file. He ordered a sandwich and a beer from room service then called Deet on her cell phone. “You got anything, Deet?”
“Yes, I do,” she replied. “Roche was dropped on a ranch near Emporia, Kansas just before dawn. I’ve got two agents out there now.”
“He’ll be gone from there by now,” Steck mused. “Try to find out when he left, what he wore, what he carried and what means of transport he used.”
“It’s already done, chief.” Her sarcasm pricked him. “Our man is in an old pickup, dressed and accessorized like a cowboy. The guy that runs the ranch is a Mister Jim Buel. He knows more than he’s telling. Our people are going to continue with an intensive interview for a while.”
“Roger that.” Steck had tensed. “I know Buel. I want to talk with him in person. Get us to Emporia right away.”
“Okay, boss, Norfolk airport in thirty minutes. Meet me at the South end of the general aviation terminal.” Deet clicked off.
Steck packed hastily, wrapped the sandwich, left the beer. At three-thirty pm they were airborne in an agency Learjet, streaming towards a landing strip in Lawrence, Kansas. A helicopter would collect them there for the short run to the Lazy Daze ranch.
The Learjet had soda on board, no beer. Steck shared half the sandwich with Susan. After some chat time with Deet and praise for her work that day, Steck remembered the photos. He opened the file on his laptop and found one shot that was straight on the faces of the men in the boat. He zoomed in, hoping the photographer had used a high resolution setting so the faces of the men might be made out. It turned out the photographer was good.
“Son-of-a-gun!” he exclaimed, seeing what appeared, except for the scar, to be the chiseled, stern face of his old comrade-in-arms, Glenn Brandt. “Brandt’s kid!” he exclaimed. Quickly, Steck connected the dots. Randy Pullin had to be involved in this.
Half an hour later, Steck and Deet sent email to the rest of the team. Steck reclined his seat, closed his eyes, and began running scenarios through his mind. Awful memories kept intruding on his thoughts.
__________
Chris Taylor went to bed at two am in his Paris hotel room. It had been a good day. The crate would be arriving at the Vancouver warehouse in an hour or so. It had been arranged to load the crate into a gasketed fiberglass transit box that would serve as an outer water proof container stacked so it could be accessed during the voyage. The small container ship would leave the harbor on the evening tide bound for Durban, South Africa, with a stop in Santiago, Chile. His men on board that ship would secretly open the container on board, remove the crate, and get it ashore in Santiago for air shipment to the Cairo free zone, then to Dubai.
Mister Al Kafajy had sent a bottle of Dom Perignon to Chris’ room. A strict Moslem and non-drinker himself, Al Kafajy took strange satisfaction in catering to the decadence of his minions from western cultures. Chris poured the dregs of the Dom Perignon equally between the two glasses on his bedside table. He nudged the woman lying beside him, also a gift from the boss. “Wake up,” he commanded. “The night is just beginning.”
___________
Paul Roche cleared Canada Immigration under his assumed identity, Terry Jansen. He took a short taxi ride from Calgary International Airport to Moraine Lake Lodge on McKnight Boulevard. He checked in under the name of George Leland and prepaid his room in cash, telling the clerk he would get up in the night to get on the road again. After a short nap, he strolled to the Sampan Restaurant, nearby. Turning on his charm, he convinced the waitress, a mousy-looking half-Asian bleach blonde in gingham to seat him by a window that gave him clear view of those coming and going. After a meal of seafood and tea, he used the public phone to ring up Naval Reference, Ltd. He asked for Albert Gray. Gray answered after a few moments, “Gray Here.”
“Hello Albert,” Roche said, as if they spoke daily.
“Roche?” answered Albert, incredulous. “What do you want?” Albert figured Roche was calling to collect on a debt. While at a convention in Washington a year ago, Albert had a minor run-in with the police about a certain girl he was found with during a drug bust at a sleazy motel. Roche got him released before arraignment, through some lawyer friends and intercession with the cops. A few thousand later, covering Roche’s “expenses” Albert had gratefully declared that he owed Roche. He knew that was a mistake. Now Roche was probably going to ask him for some favor that would involve a trip to Virginia.
“I’m at the Sampan, across the way from you,” Roche asserted.
Gray was suddenly frightened. Roche was here in Calgary? This could not be good. He summoned all his bravado. “So Roche, what’s up?”
“I need you to do me a small favor, Albert.”
Hours later, in Gray’s minivan the two men drove south along route 2, through rugged back country, then east on route 3 toward Lethbridge. Along the way, they reminisced about working together in Kuwait shortly after the Gulf War.
“Things were simpler at the agency then,” mused Gray. “You knew who the enemy was, at least.” Albert was outwardly relaxed, but inwardly tense. He was always tense around Roche. His mind dwelt on the ease with which Roche simply disposed of anybody in his way, as long as the mission got done. He worried what kind of trouble Roche might be in. It was serious enough that Roche needed to sneak into the states without going through a border station. Albert knew he couldn’t ask without putting himself in danger.
As they passed by Lethbridge, Roche changed to a more serious tone. “So, this friend of yours knows the back country well, eh?”
“Sure he does, Paul. He’s Blackfoot, just like me. You will call him Little Cloud, though that’s not his real name. You will travel on ATV’s. He’ll take you to the border through the woods and point you toward a pond on the Montana side. You will be met there and brought to Interstate 15, where a trucker will give you a ride to Great Falls. No names, no questions. From there you’re on your own.”
“These guys on the level?” asked Roche.
“Yup,” Albert said simply then added, “As long as you are.” He paused, hoping that would sink in. Then he added, “They’re just trying to make some money for the winter, Paul. There aren’t many opportunities for that out here. Play it cool and everything will work out. Try to screw them and your body will be lunch for some wild bear.”
They rode on in silence, through the area called Whiskey Gap, then a further fifteen miles east. The road, if you could call it a road, split. Albert took a fork that was worse than a logging road. After thirty minutes of bump and grind, they pulled off the road into a clearing where two men on ATV’s waited, engines off.
Nobody shook hands. Albert said something to Little Cloud in Indian, handing over a wad of cash. Little Cloud grinned, sizing up Roche with a piercing look. He started the motor on his ATV and motioned for Roche to get on behind him. Roche told him that he wanted to drive his own bike. Little Cloud just grinned again and said “Out of the question.” Roche got on then turned to say something to Albert. All he saw was tail light beams bouncing through the dust as the minivan sped away. Roche was about to get off, when the ATV lurched forward, taking off down the bumpy road at a fast speed. Roche had to hold on to keep from being tossed. He cursed loudly. Little Cloud kept grinning. The second bike was following thirty yards behind. It carried a younger man who was clearly there to protect Little Cloud. The young buck had some sort of high-powered rifle slung acr
oss his back, leather strap tight to his barrel chest. Roche figured he probably had a sidearm too.
The road became a trail, then after a while the trail became a path. It was still dark, so Roche had no idea where they were. It seemed like they were constantly climbing, then dropping, with occasional runs along a creek bed. After what seemed like hours, Little Cloud stopped his ATV in a small clearing. The trailing rider stayed behind, keeping an eye on the scene, his headlight glaring in Roche’s eyes.
“Piss break,” muttered Little Cloud, stepping off the trail. Roche followed suit. He was real uncomfortable, not just from the ride, but uneasy about his lack of control over the situation.
Returning to the vehicle, Little Cloud reached into a side bag and took out two bottles of water, tossing one to Roche. The water was tepid, but still quenched thirst in the cool night air. Little Cloud offered Roche some jerky, but Roche declined. The stuff looked rank and smelled worse. They resumed their journey, traveling down a long draw, to a wooded spot above a small pond.
The sky was turning pre-dawn blue-gray. Roche could see the pond clearly. This was where Albert had foretold he would have to go on foot. The older man spoke, plainly and slowly. “Go to the right of the pond. There is a footpath. Go to the south end of the pond, where there is a small brook that leaves the pond. Two men will meet you. Tell the men you are from Little Cloud. They will take you to the highway.”
Roche had no choice but to follow those instructions. He wanted this to be over. “Okay,” he replied. A few steps down the path, he turned to wave. The two men stood stony-faced, watching Roche intently to be sure he followed orders.
Roche figured this must be the border. Actually, they were already six miles into the United States. The Blackfoot had their own sense of “borders.”
Tired and haggard looking, the mock cowboy Roche emerged into the further custody of Indians, who proceeded in the same manner as Little Cloud, winding through back country for two hours. The sun was up, chasing the chill night air away when they stopped below the crest of a hill.
“Walk” ordered the leader, motioning toward the east and the sun. Roche was apprehensive. “Go,” ordered the man. Roche started up the trial to the top of the hill. He heard traffic sounds from the other side. Cresting the ridge, he spotted a big semi rig stopped in the break-down lane. The driver waved to him. Roche scurried down to the highway and got in the cab, as the driver stoked up his big diesel.
“Hi. My name is Terry Jansen.” Roche offered his hand to the driver.
“No names.” The driver declared, heading off down the highway.
__________
Steck and Deet spent precious hours interrogating Buel at the Lazy Daze ranch. Buel was an old hand at playing the game. He would give them just enough information to hold off arrest, all the while buying time for Roche to smudge his trail. After getting all they could, including the information about the pickup truck, Deet took off in search of the vehicle while Steck stayed with Buel.
As soon as they were alone, Steck barked at Buel. “Now it’s time to cut the crap! You’re not in this too deep yet, but if you don’t come clean with me, it’s going to get real unpleasant.”
Buel tried to give Steck a look of indifference, but Steck caught the caution in his eyes. “No baloney, Buel,” Steck flashed warning. “Roche has crossed some serious lines and you’re going to be right in the same soup if I don’t get all you know right now!”
Buel gave Steck a long stare. Then he studied the floor as if trying to decide something. The bravado that seemed so easy to Buel in front of Deet seemed to be draining out of the man. Finally he blurted “Look Bob, you know Roche. People who get in his way often disappear. I like my life here. It’s the best deal I’ve ever had. I don’t want to risk losing it. All I can tell you is he showed up bought some cowboy clothes and an old pickup and then left.”
“Look at me!” ordered Steck. “Roche is mixed up in murder, espionage and maybe even international terrorism. There are people we both know that seem to be involved along with him. You know I won’t go into the details, Buel, but this is really big league stuff. If you are involved, you’re in deep mucky, dude and you better tell me all you know before it is used against you in front of a judge.”
“I told you what I know, Bob.” Buel seemed tired, almost whipped. His eyes were on the verge of tears.”
Steck waited a long moment. “I’m not sure yet, but I think Brandt’s kid is involved. So is Randy Pullin. Buel cringed, putting hands to his ears. “I don’t want to know!” he wailed.
Steck waited until Buel had dropped his hands limply to his lap. Tuning his trained senses, Steck eyed Buel carefully. “It’s possible that Blake is in this too.”
Buel’s whole countenance changed to fear. Steck knew the fright in Buel’s eyes was genuine.
________
Greg Liss boarded a Southwest Airlines flight from Baltimore to Manchester New Hampshire in the early afternoon. He would rent a car, drive up Interstate 93 to Interstate 89. That would put him into Hanover, New Hampshire at the Dartmouth University campus by nightfall. Fortune was with him. Driving from Norfolk to Baltimore, he had contacted Doctor Wiggelsworth’s wife Margaret by cell phone. She remembered Greg and she was anxious to see him again. She invited him to come for a visit. She insisted he stay at her home over-night, knowing that if her husband had been home he would insist on extending that courtesy to a former star student. He arrived at the Dartmouth campus around six-thirty pm.
Greg parked his rental in the shade of one of the hundred year old maple trees that lined the large quadrangle. This was a magic time in New England, when tiny wisps of yellow and red begin to invade the still vivid green canopy of the great hardwood trees. Only a portent of the explosion of color that would follow in a month or so, the flashes of color in early September were a signal to get out that extra sweater and start yearning for a crisp apple from the new harvest. Greg took a deep breath, a fond sigh in remembrance of his undergraduate days in this place. Late afternoon sunlight turned to early evening shadows as he strapped on his hastily stuffed back pack and strolled across the big field, alive with students and townsfolk out for a walk. The senses and sounds of campus life penetrated his being as he walked. Lots of wonderful memories flooded in, happy carefree times. Meandering, he nodded to faculty members whom he remembered.
One older gentleman with a weathered, chiseled face and distinctive white beard stopped him with a gesture. “Now, let me see,” mused the old gent, Mister …Liss, is it?”
Greg was surprised at being recognized. “Why, yes. You must be Professor Greene? Natural Sciences, if I recall.” They chatted for a few minutes, each self-satisfied that he had remembered the other. Seeing the sun getting lower, Greg decided to end the conversation. “Could you direct me to Doctor Wigglesworth’s residence, Professor?” Greg knew perfectly well that the Wigglesworth home was at the northwest corner of the campus, just a few hundred yards directly in front of him.
“Why yes, Mister Liss, I could,” the older man replied, thoughtfully stroking his beard. He slowly gestured in the direction of a large white Victorian directly ahead. He called after Greg, who had already begun to move along, “But I’m afraid you’ll find that old Wiggie’s out of town.”
“Thank you Professor Greene,” Called Greg as he turned back toward the gentleman and waved. “I’m here as the guest of Missus Wigglesworth. I hope to see you again before I go.” Greg knew he would be long gone before Professor Greene’s day began next morning.
As Greg walked the rest of the way across campus, something reminded him of Carole Hinson. Maybe it was the hairstyle of the brunette co-ed passing buy at that moment. Maybe it was her perfume. Whatever the queue, a flood of memories, both exquisitely pleasant and excruciatingly painful came on him all at once in an unexpected jumble.
Carole was Greg’s first and only love. They had been classmates. Both studied hard and excelled in their studies. Both wanted a career in federal service.
Both wanted the other carnally and intellectually. But Carole wanted more. While Greg was content to build his life around her, Carole’s thirst for relationship with others, including other men quickly overwhelmed the romance. Finally, she threw him over for a young officer in her native Canada. She tried to remain his friend, but he couldn’t bear it. She went off to become an officer in the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS) and Greg lost track of her, except for one brief encounter at a joint security meeting in Toronto about a year ago. It was a terrible experience for Greg. She had greeted him cheerfully with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, then for the rest of the day clung to her escort, a big burly guy in a business suit. That evening, he ran across them along with another couple at a disco, where she seemed to be putting on a deliberate display of lewdness for Greg’s benefit. It was the worst memory of the young man’s life.
Greg suddenly realized that he was now sitting on a park bench, crouched in a near-fetal position. He shook off the clouds in his mind as best he could and resumed his path to the Wigglesworth home. He would drown those memories in the work at hand.
CHAPTER 8
Brandt had eleven hours to think what he would say to Colonel Randy. He drove along Interstate 90 at a moderate pace, aware that even a routine traffic violation could ruin him. It would fix his position relative to the crime scene that by now had surely been declared by the local police at Coeur d’ Alene, Idaho. If it really went badly, the body in the back of the truck would cook his goose for sure. Nevertheless, each mile of separation from the scene of Ralph Baker’s demise gave him a bit more confidence.
In the middle of the night just short of Billings, Montana, near a place called Yegen, Brandt pulled the Suburban off the highway and made his way to a public park he new about that ran along the Yellowstone river. Finding an obscure road that was little more than a path, he put the truck into four wheel drive and rumbled to a secluded spot, dousing the headlights. Donning a small headlamp, he dragged the girl’s body out of the rear access door, stashing it for the moment behind some large rocks at the bottom of a little draw. With an entrenching tool from the survival kit in the Suburban, Brandt scratched out a shallow grave from the hardpan. He mopped sweat from his brow in spite of the cold night air, as he finished the burial. Using far too much time for comfort he carefully made the area look as undisturbed as possible. Brandt slowly retraced his path to the park road, taking care not to race the engine and using the waning moonlight to pick his way along without headlights.