M1 turned to me. “Sir, you have done us a service.” He plucked a business card from an inner pocket. “May we exchange?”
“Sure thing,” I said, while extracting one from my wallet.
The card he gave me said, “Don Clark, Special Agent”. There was an address in Washington and some phone numbers, but the real eyebrow raiser was the FBI seal in the upper left corner. After my discharge from active duty, I had a box of cards made up to replace the old ones that announced my former position as a Unit Commander. The new card was much the same except that the Unit Commander line now reads, “No, not that one.”
At last, a reaction, but it was a surprising reaction. When M1 read my card he did a classic double take. “Well, I'll be damned.” He showed it to M2, who did his own version. His eyes came back to me. “We've been looking for you, Mr. Cagney.”
“Jeez, Don,” M2 said, “the stories they tell about this guy were true. He had the answer before we found him to ask for his help.”
I had no response. I had no debts and I hadn't been fooling around with any women so why were they looking for me? I was completely at sea and my face must have shown it because both were now smiling.
“Mr. Cagney,” M1 or Don said, “you were quite a celebrity when you were in Special Ops. Your ability to find associations between seemingly unrelated facts has gained the status of legend. So much so, people have doubts about some of the tales. But rest assured, Mr. Cagney, you’ve made believers out of us. And by the way, you look more like a tall Humphrey Bogart than James Cagney—go figure.”
M1 picked up my bill along with theirs as they both stood up. “Colonel Cagney,” he said, “it was both good fortune and a pleasure to have met you. You've answered the question we wanted to ask and now we must be off. We would prefer you say nothing of this occurrence.”
I smiled and nodded as both men shook my hand.
As M2 passed behind me, he murmured, “You dirty rat.”
Somehow that made me confident that I had done a good service. My stool squeaked a bit as I turned to watch them through the rain splattered front windows. M2 was on his cell phone as they piled into a gray, very forgettable car and swiftly disappeared into the evening traffic.
I was about to leave when our speedy waitress, whom I had dubbed “Miss Magic”, caused a steaming mug of black coffee to materialize.
“Your friends paid for your meal,” she said, “and they gave me a generous tip.”
The lady then evaporated into thin air while I puzzled over my strange encounter. The best part of the curious event was that it completely lifted my mood and I could drive home as myself in my Toyota.
When I finished the coffee, I levered myself off the red-topped stool. It gave forth with a faint sigh as the top rose like a rapidly expanding loaf of round bread, cut short by the next hungry customer. There was a smile on my face as I walked to my car. I was thinking of Miss Magic's expression when she found the damp ten-dollar bill I tucked under my cup. Her behavior removed my negative thoughts about the younger generation. After all, I was having a good day, why not share it? The drive home was without incident. As I locked the Toyota and lowered the garage door, I had no memory of the trip, which happens frequently in my journeys around town.
Just inside the back door I found Jesus waiting for me, so I bowed down and scratched his ears. Jesus came into my life almost two and a half years ago on my return from a Friday evening at Batts Bar and sometimes Grill. I recall it was a very cold night. As I turned the key and pushed the door open, a dark shadow streaked between my legs and on into the kitchen. I stepped in, clicked on the light and saw a gray cat shivering by the sink. “Jesus!” I exclaimed to the empty room.
I did not want a cat. Pets are like kids, they give you responsibilities and restrict your freedom. The beast had no collar. I thought to take it to a cat place or the pound, but somehow that got put off and here we are, two and a half years and counting.
Now, there he was, looking up at me as I turned to lock the door. I hung up my wet garments, then went through the kitchen and down a short hallway to a tiny room that overlooks the back yard. Stuck to the back of the house like a Post-it Note, it had proved to be the perfect spot for a study. There was just enough space for a small roll-top desk that holds my computer. A tiny bookshelf completes the décor. My seat is a fine old oak office chair that creaks in a friendly manner as one leans back. The room, like my wrist, has no visible timepiece to remind me that the world keeps moving. I own a Westclox Scotty pocket watch I inherited from my father, but mostly I keep it in one of the desk drawers. The only after dark illumination comes from my computer monitor or a forty-watt bulb nestled in the interior of an antique, green shaded lamp. A single cascading ivy plant hangs over the top shelf of the desk. Directly under the last trailing leaf, I placed a small, framed picture of Jean.
This small space had a previous life as a mini greenhouse. There was a time, just a few years ago when the number of growing things made it difficult to enter. Now the lone ivy is all that remains. I watered the plant faithfully for a couple of years, but then my routine became sporadic and the plant died. It still hangs there, brown and dusty. I try not to think about it. It's part of the house now.
I glanced again at her picture. She left a few years back. Something was missing in our lives. Although we tried, we couldn't fix whatever was wrong. We were searching for shadows on a cloudy day and on one of those cloudy days she walked away, leaving me bewildered, lonely and for a time, angry. Now we talk occasionally on the phone and the bitterness has evaporated. Time has helped, but on quiet days, I still look for those shadows.
A widow lady lives next door—Molly Watson. She’s almost my age and very good looking. We speak occasionally in passing, but for some reason it’s awkward. I’ve had thoughts of asking her to dinner and a while back I did make one miserable attempt. It’s an event that I’d rather forget. Fat chance.
It was a pleasant afternoon, late last summer. The anticipation of approaching her did a job on my confidence. As I reached her sidewalk I got the jitters and started to perspire, even though I had given myself an extra dose of Old Spice. My bad leg, the one that got me my Purple Heart, was acting up, causing me to limp. I told myself to buck up while I climbed the steps to her porch, but it didn’t help. The sound of my hand knocking on the door reverberated around my skull like the report of a Howitzer. I was a mess.
If only she wasn’t home, but the door swung open and there was the lovely Molly Watson, framed in the doorway. She smiled at me. I grinned back. I was a stupid fool, thinking this elegant creature would have any interest in an old man. I had to bow out somehow. I had to save her the embarrassment of having to reject my clumsy offer, so in desperation I asked her if she had a good recipe for chili. I think she was puzzled, but she returned in seconds and handed me a card. She said it was her favorite.
Oh how I cursed myself on the walk home. I made the chili, but I didn’t eat it. I avoid that dish to this day. I try to tell myself I’m just out of practice, but I’ve aged about as well as the three week old banana I found behind the bread basket.
Having nothing better to do, I booted the elderly computer I purchased before the turn of the century. In computer years, that meant it, like me, was beginning its sixth decade, but still doddering along. The only negative feelings I have toward the trusty machine are because of the young twerp lieutenant that gave the old guy lessons. The lieutenant was a girl who took savage delight in lording her vast knowledge over a field grade officer.
After the familiar Microsoft sound, I Googled the FBI and found a huge amount of general information, but none pertinent to my current situation. The temptation to search M1's name was strong, but I resisted because someone may have been watching. After a futile hour, I abandoned the machine and fetched a glass of New York Merlot from the kitchen. Back in my study, I cracked open a window and resumed my seat, as did Jesus. There I lit a cigar, sipped my wine and figuratively watched the world go by.
My expectation, but not my desire, was that this ended my little adventure. A couple of days slipped quietly past. My Silver Dinner memory began to retreat to the file cabinet in the back of my mind, still available, but tucked away from daily events. I swallowed my disappointment as best I could. My world resumed its routine and life went on. The only event that loomed in my near future was the start of Social Security—rats!
CHAPTER 2
On Friday morning, the phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Colonel Cagney?”
I recognized the voice instantly. My heart rate jumped and without thinking, I blurted, “M1, how's things?”
“M1? Are we talking in code now?”
“Oh, shoot,” I exclaimed. “I was thinking of you at lunch last Wednesday. When I first saw you two I pegged you for ex-Marines. I labeled you M1 and your partner, M2.”
“Good call, my friend. We are Marines, but just not on active duty. They would be good nicknames.”
“Feel free to use them,” I said. “Anyway, please call me Jim or James and how can I help you.”
“M2 and I would like to buy you lunch.”
“Great, “I said. “Business or pleasure?”
“Some of both, I think. How about meeting at the same place about two o'clock? It should be less crowded.”
“I'll be there,” I said, enthusiastically.
“Good, see you then. Don't forget to feed your cat.”
Before I could react, there was a click and then silence. It didn't take too many brain cells to realize the cat reference was deliberate. He wanted me to know forces unseen had examined all of my little secrets. All right, but what the hell, the old warhorse just got a whiff of adventure.
I had an hour to burn, but nothing to put in the fire. My energy and excitement increased as I paced around the house. Jesus knew something was up. I found him on the flower stand, staring intently through the picture window at an unmarked van, parked across the street. I picked up his paw and both of us waved. At this stage, everything was deliciously suspicious.
Waiting can be an unreachable itch under circumstances like this, but like always the watched pot finally boiled. I retrieved the Scotty from my desk drawer, wound it a few turns and dropped it in my shirt pocket. I'm not sure why, but perhaps it was just nerves. A small notebook and pen joined the watch and I was out the door. Just before I left, I gave the cat a sardine.
The place was half empty and the few remaining customers looked ready to leave. Although there was a wide choice of seats, my lunch buddies chose to use the same stools they had occupied last Wednesday. Miss Magic, who had shifted into low gear for her favorite new customers, was standing in front of them with pad in hand. As I sat down, she rewarded me with her ten-dollar smile and that was something to see.
“I’ll have a tuna salad on whole wheat, skim milk and coffee,” I said.
“Black, right?” she said.
I nodded.
When she whisked away, leaving the three of us alone at that end of the room, both M1 and M2 leaned forward on their elbows. They had my full attention.
Nodding toward his partner, M2 said, “M1 tells me I failed to introduce myself at our previous meeting.” He reached over to shake my hand. “My name is Mike Gunner, but please call me M2. Happy to meet you.”
I was about to comment on the appropriateness of his name, but decided to do no more than smile. I'm sure many people at the Agency had been there ahead of me and he had my full sympathy.
“We're here today,” M1 said, “because you may see things we don't, things beyond our experience. The information you gave us was a boost in that we now have a name, but we've made little progress since then. Our hope is that you can shed some more light on our investigation after you hear what I'm about to tell you.” He looked around to make sure we had a degree of privacy. “We're looking for a man, about your age who was at Fort Knox, Kentucky for basic training in the early seventies. We don't yet know his origins or what became of him after he left the service. The problem is that many years ago, a fire at the National Personnel Records Center destroyed most of his documents. His real name is Carl Manheim and that's about all we have. We have no civilian address, nor do we know his assigned location or what his job was while on active duty. The information is there, no doubt, packed away in some other warehouse. There are people on the hunt, but who knows how long it may take.”
Miss Magic arrived shouldering a large tray containing our lunch. She wore no jewelry other than tiny diamond-like beads in each ear. Her lipstick was the same color as the red trim on her uniform. It went well with her short, black hair. She distributed the food as quickly as a card shark dealing a hand of poker, then twirled and left. I'm not sure she actually kicked up a breeze, but one got that impression.
“See why I like this place?” M2 said, nodding toward her retreating figure.
I took a quick bite and turned my attention back to M1 who proved to be very adept at simultaneously chewing and talking. “Before I continue,” he said, “I should ask if you're willing to become involved.”
My mouth being full of tuna, prevented a verbal response, so I gave him a thumbs up and a vigorous nod of my head. These guys could be lifesavers for me, so why hesitate? I swallowed. “Sure, but you’d better tell those guys in the van to be less obvious. Even my cat noticed them.”
“Them is him,” M1 said, “but point taken. You need some background. About a mile farther down the road is a large manufacturing plant. The sign out front says simply GPR, Inc. Have you seen it?”
“Probably, but it didn't register if I did. I rarely have occasion to visit this area.”
“The GPR stands for Ground Penetrating Radar. They research and manufacture sophisticated GPR units. They have a multitude of uses in archeology, mining, police work, the military and all sorts of construction. In case you don't know, the devices shoot a high-energy beam into the ground, a computer analyzes the return signal and then paints a 3D picture of whatever structure it finds. Just imagine you're a soldier in a hostile country and your job is to locate hidden caves and other underground facilities.”
M1 stopped talking as two new dinner customers approached our end. They displayed the searching look and hesitant walk of people trying to decide where to sit when there is a wealth of choices. As they passed behind me, M2 passed gas and it was not silent. The two performed a hasty retreat to a booth at the far end and once again we were in a private space. M2 reached over to show me the gadget in his hand. It was the size of a pack of cigarettes with two words printed on the side—Fart Machine. I could read nothing in their facial expressions and M1, without comment, picked up the story line. “GPR sells exclusively in this country and only to those customers approved by the Government because they only manufacture very high-end stuff. Most foreign buyers are not welcome. We know the location of every unit and who owns them. At least we did until very recently.
“Now, this is where we come in. A little less than a month ago, a man, roughly your age, showed up at the GPR facility, presenting himself as an agent for a University in Ohio. The man had the ID of the real agent, but it was all fake. He provided GPR with all the proper documents necessary to purchase their best military grade unit. The story he told was about a University-sponsored archeological project in Arizona that was underway, but on hold until they had a unit on site. There is such a project, but we learned he had no connection with it.
“He presented GPR with a certified check from an Ohio bank. GPR has their money, but we learned it was drawn on a new account opened with fake credentials and with a large cash deposit. On delivery day Carl Manheim showed up at the shipping dock driving a white step-van. Just two hours earlier GPR was informed by the State Department that they required further documentation from the buyer. The GPR Sales Manager said that Carl was very understanding and asked that the manager call the State Department and find out exactly what was needed.
“The manager went to his offic
e to make the call, leaving Carl and the crate containing the GPR unit and generator alone on the dock. About ten minutes later the manager returned to find that the GPR unit, Carl and the van had vanished. The mystery is that the crated GPR and generator weighed about three hundred and sixty pounds. The single forklift was locked, there were no hand trucks and the manager recalled seeing the completely empty interior of the van. We entered the picture later that day.”
By that time we had finished our food, Miss Magic showed up to perform her switcharoo and the dirty dishes became cups of steaming coffee. M1, elbows on counter, held his cup with both hands and continued between sips.
“M2 and I arrived about ten days ago to begin our investigation. By the way, the evening we met, the director’s adjutant, who knew about you, suggested we look you up. Luckily, you found us.
“In a nutshell, we have made very little progress until you saw my doodles. The sales office at GPR has no security cameras. No one bothered to note the plate number of the van and the description of our subject is beyond vague. Our subject is a white male maybe sixty or older, normal weight, light complexion, maybe six feet tall and no outstanding features.” M1 raised an eyebrow. “Sort of like you, but anyway, his false papers had no prints other than the staff at GPR.
“The only item of value was his in-town contact phone number at an economy motel he used while he was here. We're staying there, by the way. It's not very inviting, but it's reasonably clean and handy. Incidentally, the name of the place, believe it or not, is The Sleep Tight Wad. Fortunately, he used the same fake name to register.”
I interrupted with a question. “What was his fake name anyway? Do I need to know?”
“Not really, but it was Yorlik Wazer. As far as we can tell there is no one in the entire world with that name.”
I had my notepad on the counter and wrote down the name as M1 spelled it out. “Sounds like an Arabic Viking,” I said, and then added, “Hang on a minute.” I studied the name for a few more seconds. “I have a habit of playing around with words. For example if I see a stop sign I‘ll try to see how many other words I can create using the same letters—so, to, top, tops, pot, pots, post, opt, spot and sop. That activity becomes automatic if you do it often enough.” I wrote Yorlik in reverse and showed it to them, “Recognize that?” I asked.
Discovery Page 2