High Flight

by David Hagberg

  “That might depend on the Washington cops keeping their mouths shut,” McLaren said.

  “Don’t worry about them. We’ve got another fish to fry,” Whitman said. He handed across an 8 x 10 glossy photograph of the two men coming out of Tallerico’s house. It was one of the shots Joyce had taken. “Recognize either one of them?”

  “The tall skinny guy looks familiar. Haven’t had a chance to run it down yet,” McLaren said. “Don’t know about the other one.”

  “Neither do we. But first one is probably Glen Zerkel. Earth Stewards. Environmental terrorists.”

  “Idaho,” McLaren said.

  “Right. But he dropped out of sight afterward and hasn’t surfaced until now. Makes you wonder what Mr. Tallerico was up to this time.”

  “Doesn’t fit the pattern,” Joyce said.

  “Maybe we never really established a pattern,” Whitman said.

  “This other one with him could be anybody,” McLaren said, staring at the photograph. “But what have we got on Zerkel?”

  “He’s got a half-brother in San Francisco, which might be the connection to Tallerico. Brother’s name is Louis Zerkel. Works for a high-tech electronics company as a design engineer. We checked him out just after the Idaho incident, but the field investigation at that time turned up nothing. The brothers had a falling out several years earlier and were never in touch.”

  “Until now?” Joyce asked.

  Whitman shrugged. “It’s worth a visit. I want you two on it ASAP.”

  “Why not just let San Francisco run with it?” Joyce asked.

  “You’re already familiar with the case. It’d take them a couple of days to get up to speed, and I don’t want to miss anything. I’ve got a feeling that if we don’t hustle we’ll miss the boat.”

  Mueller rented a Ford Taurus from the Hertz counter at San Francisco International Airport under the Michael Larsen persona that Reid had supplied. Theirs was the last flight for the night, and it was well after 12:30 A.M. by the time they reached the northbound Bayshore Freeway. Zerkel drove because he was familiar with the area. He’d grown up in California, but he felt no sense of homecoming. In fact the only thing he felt was excitement that he was finally doing something. Not once did he think about his fellow Earth Stewards or about the stewardship movement. This time he was on a new quest and damned glad to be working with a real pro for a change.

  Mueller had slept soundly during the flight from Dulles, and he was dozing now, his head back, his eyes closed. Zerkel glanced over at the German, his respect tinged with fear. The ex-East German Secret Service assassin was not like any of the men Zerkel had known and worked with. The instant before he’d pulled the trigger to kill Tallerico, Zerkel had watched his eyes. There’d been nothing there, not so much as a flicker of emotion to betray the fact he was about to blow away a human being.

  Zerkel had examined his own feelings about the murder during the long flight west, but the only conclusion he’d come to about himself, beside the fact he was crazy, was that although he never hesitated to kill when it was necessary, he did have feelings. He did think about his victims afterward with some remorse. Mueller was clearly cut of a different cloth. Perhaps it was because he was European, or more specifically German. Those people had had plenty of practice killing each other. Maybe it was in their blood. Whatever it was, Zerkel thought, he was glad to be working with the man. It was a real education.

  The urban sprawl that was San Francisco spread for miles to the north, east, and south. Millions of people, all using and spewing harsh petrochemicals into the environment, all using up the limited reserves of precious water, all of them choking the environment beyond repair. It made Zerkel sick at heart to see it again. If the Japanese took over it would be worse. Although he’d never been to Tokyo, he’d read about the city and its problems. Too many people crammed into too small a space for too many centuries had turned them into automatons. They wanted to do the same thing to the entire world. Eventually one supernational corporation would exist that would consume the world’s natural resources, build the world’s products, supply the world’s food, drink, and entertainment, and set the world’s rules and regulations. It would be Brave New World and 1984, and in Zerkel’s mind the only way to prevent such a thing from happening was by opposing it now with every measure at their disposal. Including sabotage and murder.

  A ship was passing beneath the Golden Gate Bridge, heading out to sea, and Zerkel had the vicious thought that if it was heading for Japan he hoped it would sink in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

  Mueller opened his eyes and sat up as Zerkel pulled off the highway and headed down to the marina on Richardson Bay. The night was damp and chill with a light breeze coming out of the northwest. The marina was home to a hundred or more live-aboard houseboats, some of them two and three stories tall, and some of them elaborate. Many of them had to be in the one-million-dollar-plus range. Whatever sort of practice Dr. Jeanne Shepard ran, it had to be extremely successful.

  It was late enough that no one sat on their decks or strolled along the quay. Finger pier E was on the opposite side of the basin from the marina office.

  Zerkel parked nearby. They sat in the dark car, the windows down, listening to the distant hum of traffic on the highway and the rhythmic clapping of wavelets against the boat hulls. This was a peaceful spot.

  “I’m going with you,” Zerkel said. He got both guns from the single bag they’d checked through.

  “We’ll switch pistols this time,” Mueller said. “You’ll take the Luger.”

  Together he and Mueller walked back to pier E and headed out to the houseboats on the end.

  “As with Mr. Tallerico, you will be good enough not to interfere with me. You may not always understand what I am doing or why I am doing it, but these are time-honored methods that work.”

  “I can dig it. You’re the man.”

  Seventeen-E was one of the more elaborate boats in the basin. Eighty feet at the waterline, she was twenty-five feet wide and rose two stories out of the water. The roof was covered by an elaborate patio garden with flowers and shrubs and what appeared to be living trees. Stepping aboard they could hear classical music from within, and Mueller motioned for Zerkel to hold up.

  There were no lights. The woman had probably gone to sleep to the music.

  Mueller tried the door into the main salon, but it was locked as he expected it would be. Taking out a four-inch section of ice pick that he had found at Reid’s farmhouse and modified, he picked the flimsy lock in ten seconds. A cursory examination of the door and frame revealed no alarms, nevertheless he waited a full minute for lights to kick on and a siren to blast the night.

  When nothing happened he stepped inside. Zerkel came in behind him and softly closed the door. The place smelled of perfume and incense. Enough light filtered through the windows for them to see that they were in a large salon. Long white couches, glass and brass coffee tables, artwork on the walls, books along one wall. Straight ahead was a fireplace, and to the right and aft, spiral stairs let up to the second floor. The soft music came from above. It was Dvoák’s New World Symphony. The doctor had good taste.

  Mueller checked the pistol, then crossed to the stairs and went up. Zerkel, careful to make no noise, followed the East German. At the top they followed the music down a hall to an open door that led into a combination sitting room/bedroom that spread across the entire width of the boat. Sliding glass doors on the aft wall opened onto a broad balcony, the railings of which were covered with weather cloths.

  Dr. Jeanne Shepard, her blonde hair spilling over her pillow, the covers pulled up to her neck, was sound asleep. She was alone.

  Nonchalantly, Mueller went to the stereo and turned up the music. Dr. Shepard stirred slightly but did not wake up. He went to the windows and drew the curtains, including the drapes across the sliding glass doors. Finally he flipped on the small table lamp on the nightstand.

  Dr. Shepard stirred again. This time she came aw
ake. For several moments she stared up at Mueller and Zerkel uncomprehendingly. Suddenly something connected in her head, and she sat straight up, her eyes wide, her hands flying up as if to ward off a blow.

  “My God … who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “We’ve come from Washington, D.C.,” Mueller said pleasantly. He made no move to conceal his gun. “Mr. Tallerico supplied us with your name and address, and now we would like you to give us the name and address of a certain patient of yours.”

  Dr. Shepard looked from Mueller to Zerkel in disbelief. Suddenly she lunged for the telephone, but Mueller reached her in two steps, bringing the pistol up to her face.

  “I don’t want to kill you, but I will,” he said.

  Her breath caught in her throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Mueller gently pulled the bedcovers to the foot of the bed. Dr. Shepard, dressed in a long, lavender-flowered nightshirt, shrank back, drawing her legs up beneath her.

  “Take your nightgown off,” Mueller said. He pulled the pillow out from under her and laid it aside. “Do as I say, Dr. Shepard, or I shall shoot you in the head.”

  “I’ll give you the name …”

  “Do as I say,” Mueller insisted. He pulled the Beretta’s hammer back.

  “My God, this can’t be happening,” she cried. “I’ll tell you what you want to know, it isn’t that important to me …”

  Mueller backhanded her in the face, the blow so unexpected it caught her in mid-sentence. Her head banged against the wall, and she grunted in pain.

  “Take off your nightgown,” Mueller said calmly.

  It took her several seconds to recover. “You can’t do this to me,” she whimpered. But she struggled up to her knees, and hesitating a second longer, tears filling her eyes, she pulled the thin nightgown over her head. Mueller took it from her. Her breasts were large but firm, her tummy only slightly rounded, and her hips and ass looked tight.

  “On your back now,” the East German said, his voice still maddeningly calm. “And spread your legs.”

  “You’re going to rape me? No … my God, no, please … you don’t want to do this. God, please!”

  Mueller switched the safety on the pistol, stuffed it into his belt, and then wound the nightgown around his right fist, his actions slow and very deliberate as Dr. Shepard continued to plead with him. Zerkel didn’t know what was going to happen next, but he was very impressed.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” Dr. Shepard asked. “I’ll tell you what you want to know …”

  Mueller smashed his nightgown-padded fist into her face, breaking her nose and knocking out two of her teeth. Her entire body was driven against the wall with a thud that shook the entire houseboat. She was dazed and offered no resistance as Mueller grabbed her ankles, pulled her flat on her back, and spread her legs.

  He glanced at Zerkel. “We’ve found by experience that naked people, in this sort of position, tend to tell fewer lies than when they’re fully clothed.”

  Zerkel nodded, unable to take his eyes off the woman.

  “Saves time,” Mueller said. He sat down at the head of the bed and watched Dr. Shepard’s eyes until they came back in focus. She started to bring her legs together, but he shook his head. “Nobody wants to hurt you again, Jeanne.”

  She stopped, her body rigid, her eyes locked into his.

  “Please tell me the name of the patient that you and Mr. Tallerico spoke of. He is the one who knows something about a device that brings down airplanes. We would like to know his place of employment and his home address.”

  “Louis Zerkel,” she mumbled.

  “No, you don’t understand,” Mueller said maintaining his calm. Had he misheard her?

  “Wait,” Zerkel interrupted. “She said Louis Zerkel.”

  “Louis Zerkel,” Dr. Shepard repeated, her voice nasal. “He works for InterTech Corporation in Alameda. His apartment is there too.” She gave an address. Her face was already swelling, blood oozing from her nose and her mouth.

  “It’s my brother, man,” Zerkel was saying. “How about that shit.”

  “Will he cooperate with us?” Mueller asked, amazed. Only in America.

  “Last time I saw him was at my old lady’s funeral. He was pissed off at me. But if he was dealing with this bitch I’ll be able to talk to him.”

  Mueller thought it out, still finding it difficult to believe the coincidence, but he played with the cards he was dealt. “Fuck her,” he said, getting up.

  Zerkel reared back. “What?”

  “Fuck her,” Mueller said matter-of-factly. “She needs to be found with semen in her vagina.” He pulled out the Beretta, switched the safety catch off, wrapped the gun in the pillow, and before the stunned Jeanne Shepard could react, he shot her in the left temple at point-blank range, killing her instantly.

  “Sonofabitch,” Zerkel whispered.

  “Now, Mr. Zerkel, fuck her, if you please. I’ll wait for you in the car. When you’re finished we’ll go see your brother.”

  A weather system over Moscow deepened the overcast so that by late afternoon streetlights were on and it was necessary for cars and buses to run with their headlights. The others were asleep, but when McGarvey came to Kennedy’s suite the Guerin executive was wide awake.

  “Quite a mess they’ve got for themselves,” Kennedy said from the window. From here they could see the Kremlin walls, Red Square, St. Basil’s, the Moscow River, and across it to another, grimier section of the vast city.

  “Having second thoughts about putting the factory here?”

  “Second thoughts, third thoughts, fourth thoughts. Jeff might be right. Maybe we’d be throwing money down a bottomless pit.”

  McGarvey held his silence. Moscow almost always affected newcomers the same way. It was depressing. After just a few hours you began to lose hope. The grayness, the drabness everywhere got you down.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Still a big country, David,” McGarvey said. “Lots of talent here even if the system is bankrupt.”

  Kennedy turned around. “Rather have them as friends than enemies?”

  “Something like that,” McGarvey said. He gestured to himself, then the door, and waved goodbye. Kennedy nodded his understanding, offered him the thumbs- up sign, and McGarvey left.

  Like any building that contained as many people as the Rossiya Hotel—as many as six thousand guests could be accommodated—there were dozens of ways in and out. In the old days McGarvey had learned them all. It was a bit of tradecraft useful for any spy in Moscow. Ten minutes after leaving Kennedy, McGarvey slipped out a basement maintenance entrance and so far as he could tell came away clean.

  He was back in the field and it was affecting him the same way it always had: butterflies in the gut, tense muscles, and an almost preternatural awareness of his surroundings. And, God help him, he found that he loved it. He was alive.

  Louis Zerkel’s apartment was located in a faded complex a few blocks off Alameda’s Central Avenue. The security system was broken or switched off so they didn’t have to pick the lock to gain entry to the rear corridor.

  It was a few minutes before four when Glen Zerkel knocked at his half-brother’s door. Mueller stayed out of sight of the peephole. Glen was crazy and his half-brother was seeing a psychiatrist. No telling how they would react to each other.

  Zerkel knocked again. He was having trouble keeping in focus. He’d never fucked a dead body before, and he didn’t know how he felt.

  “What do you want?” a muffled voice asked from within.

  Glen Zerkel looked up. “It’s me, Louis, your brother. I want to talk to you.”

  “What do you want with me? Why have you come here?”

  Glen glanced at Mueller, then turned back to the peephole. They’d discussed just how this situation would have to be handled.

  “Who’s there with you?” Louis demanded.

  “We talked to Dr. Shepard tonight. She told us that we s
hould come over here to see you.”

  “You talked about me with Dr. Shepard?” Louis demanded loudly.

  “Yes. Now let me in.”

  “You talked with my doctor? Goddammit, you had no right to do that.”

  “We need your help, Louis. With the device you’re building for Guerin.”

  “She shouldn’t have told you about that,” Louis Zerkel shouted. If this kept up they would wake the neighbors and they’d have trouble.

  “We came from Washington just to see you, Louis. Let us in. We need your help, and Dr. Shepard said you would do it.”

  “You came from Washington? Did Dr. Shepard talk to Mr. Reid after all? Did he send you to talk to me?”

  Glen Zerkel glanced again at Mueller who was nodding yes. “Yes, Mr. Reid sent us. He heard about what you’d discovered and he sent us.”

  Mueller could hardly believe his ears. It was as if the entire scenario had been scripted. He’d never run into a situation like this in his entire career. If he had he would have immediately backed off, but he no longer had the luxury of choice. He would have to take this wherever it led.

  Louis Zerkel unlocked the door and opened it. He was dressed in tattered UC-Berkeley sweats, his hair wildly disheveled. A strong odor of electronic equipment wafted out of the dark apartment, and for an instant Glen Zerkel felt as if he were a hapless victim being invited into a mad scientist’s laboratory on some late-night horror flick.

  “It’s the Japanese. Mr. Reid is absolutely correct,” Louis said excitedly. He turned back into the apartment and switched on a dim light. Computer equipment filled the living room.

  Mueller locked the door as Louis brought up what appeared to be a schematic diagram on one of the computers.

  “Take a look at this …” Louis said as he looked up, the words dying in his throat when he saw Mueller.

  “Good morning, Mr. Zerkel, terribly sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but Mr. Reid thought it was very important that we come here to personally see you,” Mueller said smoothly. He came across to where Zerkel sat in front of the active screen. “What have we got here? Don’t tell me that you’ve actually got hold of the circuit diagram for the device?”