“Mama, guess what?” Finn breathed.
“What?”
“We learned about the captain!”
“The captain?”
“The brave tugboat captain who rescued the passengers from the plane,” Finn explained, holding up a drawing of what could have been a boat.
It could also have been a picture of a tiger, a house, or a sandwich as far as she could tell. But it could have been a boat.
Fiona squealed with delight. “We asked Dad to read us the article again, you know, about the ghost plane. And we heard a clue! The tugboat captain rescued everyone. Maybe he would know something that could help us solve our mystery.”
Sasha bobbed her head, impressed. It was a solid instinct. Of course, she already knew they’d hit a dead end. But she smiled encouragingly. “That’s very smart.”
“It was. It was a great idea,” Connelly agreed. “Unfortunately, the captain died in a car accident, just about a month after the plane crash—in January of 1956.”
“That’s too bad, for him and for us. It also meant that Mr. Cowman never got the chance to follow up with him about the plane crash.”
“You already knew?” Connelly eyed her.
She shrugged. “I knew that Archie Cowman repeatedly tried to reach Captain Roberts in the days and weeks following the crash. And there was a reference to his ‘mysterious and convenient death’ in one of Cowman’s later pieces. To be honest, when I read it, it seemed a bit paranoid, but now ….” She trailed off and gave her husband a significant look.
She had more to say, but not in front of the kids.
She turned to them. “Still, thinking of him was good detective work, you two.”
“It was,” Finn agreed somberly. “And now we need a break.”
“You do?”
“Yes, solving a mystery takes a lot of brain breaks,” Fiona informed her.
“What are you thinking?”
“Screen time,” her daughter said instantly. “The movie about the princess and the monster.”
“The monster and the princess,” Finn corrected her. “The monster is the star.”
“He is not!”
Sasha intervened before the conversation turned ugly. “I think that’s fair. And that was some solid advocacy, my little lawyers.”
They ran off to their playroom to watch their movie.
“Should one of us go up and make sure they can set it up?” Connelly asked.
“Are you kidding? We’re maybe a year or two away from asking them for help with technology. They’ve got it down pat.”
“Fair point.”
He leaned over her shoulder, and they studied Finn’s drawing of the tugboat together.
“Is this right side up?”
He shrugged. “Who could say? So, spill your news. You looked about as excited as the kids did when you came down here. You found something.”
“I did. Before my Nana Alexandrov died, she was on a kick of tracing her family tree, and I helped her search databases on the internet. When you mentioned that the military historian used the excuse of doing genealogical research, I realized I could do the same. I logged into Nana’s old account on one of the more robust ancestry sites and found all the people who had Vladimir Ivanoffs listed in their family lineages.”
“Were there many?”
“A boatload. Apparently, Vladimir Ivanoff is the John Smith of Russia.”
“Ugh.”
“It wasn’t too bad, though. I just cut and pasted a basic message that I sent to all the hits. I said my name is Sasha Alexandrov and—”
“Alexandrov, huh?” He twisted his mouth into a little smirk.
She drew herself up. “Technically, I am an Alexandrov. And the account is under Nana’s name. Besides, Sasha Alexandrov seemed more likely to get responses than Sasha McCandless or, even worse, Sasha McCandless-Connelly. I mean, I’m not searching for relatives in County Cork.”
“Fair enough. Go on.”
“Anyway, I said that one of my ancestors in Pittsburgh had known a man named Vladimir Ivanoff, who had briefly been in the city back in the 1950s. And that he may have been a former Soviet military officer. Yes, I fudged the truth. Sue me.”
“I know better than to sue a lawyer.” He laughed. “Did anyone bite?”
“I got one response. Some second or third cousin a couple times removed wrote back and said family lore held that Vladimir, a distant relative, served as an intelligence officer in the Soviet Army and was killed in Pittsburgh.”
“Really?”
“Yep. The details are sketchy because the cousin’s English is about as strong as my Russian, but from what I gather the story is that Vladimir was in Pittsburgh to gather intelligence about a new technology being built—possibly a very lightweight weapon that was to be coated with special paint that would make it undetectable. Invisible.”
“So what? Some sort of early stealth bomber?”
“Maybe. But it made me think. The article said that the bomber went down over Pittsburgh on its way to somewhere else.”
“A base in Maryland.”
“What if that’s not true? What if Pittsburgh was its destination all along? Think about it. There’s Alcoa, Pittsburgh Plate Glass, all the steel companies. They all had tight ties to the military, especially back then.”
“So, Ivanoff was here to either surveil or sabotage a test run of this new technology ?”
“Possibly. Or maybe he was supposed to steal it. I don’t know. But I do know this—even though Hank said Ivanoff was listed as missing in action, he got a hero’s burial in absentia, according to the cousin. The family got some special medal. I feel like I should arrange to send the dog tags when this is all said and done.”
“Reporter threatened. Tugboat captain died, possibly under mysterious conditions. GRU officer presumed dead.” Connelly ticked the points off on his fingers.
Sasha held up two more fingers. “Don’t forget, Hank’s friend was warned not to look into Ivanoff, and there’s the small matter of a missing plane.”
He blew out a breath. “I guess all that’s left to do is track down a retired, possibly dead, MI6 agent whom we know only by his initials.”
“How hard could it be to find J.C.P.?”
Not very, as it would turn out.
6
On a hunch, Sasha reviewed her printouts. She pulled out the materials from the online archives related to the bomber’s crash and subsequent disappearance and cross-referenced the passenger manifest against Archie Cowman’s list of rescued men: the pilot, Major Charles Lee Morgan; co-pilot, Captain Adam Strauss; Sergeant Ronald Jones; Airman Second Class Trent Williams; and one Jack Calvin Pierce, identified as ‘guest, R.A.F.’
If Jack Calvin Pierce was the mysterious J.C.P. identified in the photograph in Cowman’s box, and if R.A.F. stood for Royal Air Force, it wasn’t too great a leap to imagine that Cowman had, for some reason, believed the R.A.F. officer was working on behalf of his country’s intelligence apparatus.
She opened an internet browser and cracked her fingers, glad Connelly wasn’t nearby to scold her for the habit. The only questions were whether she could manage to locate Jack Calvin Pierce, and, if so, would he still be alive?
She could, and he was.
She closed her laptop and went off to find Connelly in the playroom, engrossed in the epic battle between the misunderstood monster with a raging toothache and the feisty princess with dreams of becoming a dentist. She lingered in the doorway until the big musical number ended, and then caught Connelly’s eye. He extricated himself from Finn’s hug and gently moved Fiona off his knee.
“What’s up?” he stage whispered as he joined her in the hallway.
“I’m pretty sure J.C.P. is a man named Jack Calvin Pierce, a retiree who hails from a charming fishing town in Pembrokeshire, Wales.”
“No kidding. You found him?”
“His PicaPage profile is public. He’s an open book, er, page.”
He clicked hi
s tongue against his teeth. “That’s a bit odd for a former MI6 agent, don’t you think?”
“Well, his bio lists him as retired from the Royal Air Force. I assume if he is MI6, he wouldn’t say so. You know, like someone else I know.” She raised an eyebrow.
“Sure, but I don’t have a PicaPage page, or a Snapagram handle, or any of that. You know how I feel about putting our life out there on the internet for the entire world to see.”
“Oh, I do. Apparently, Mr. Pierce doesn’t share your concerns. Or maybe someone helped him set up his page, and he doesn’t know how to lock down his privacy settings. Or it could be that he’s in his late eighties, and he figures any enemies he’s made are already dead and buried . . . or not much of a threat at this point. Whatever his reason, he was easy to find.”
“So, did you send him a private message? I mean, I know it’s the middle of the night in Wales, but he’ll see it in the morning.”
“I didn’t send him a message yet, and he’s not in Wales.”
“I thought you said—”
“I did. But he posted a Boxing Day picture. In the comment thread, he said he was popping off to the States for a visit to his grandkids.”
“He’s in the country?”
“Connelly, he’s in the county. Just today, he was tagged in a photo that I definitely recognize. He’s standing on the front porch of a house in Fox Chapel.”
“You’re sure? He’s here?”
“His daughter and her family live in that house near Hartwood Acres—the one with the wide wraparound porch. I’d know it anywhere.”
“That’s … quite a coincidence.”
“I guess.”
She knew they were thinking the same thing: there are no coincidences.
“So, what’s our play?”
“I’m not sure. I guess I message him, ask him if I can call him. I mean, it’s probably our best chance to talk to him, right? We can’t pass it by.”
The muscle in his right cheek twitched. That meant he was thinking. “I think that’s right. Go ahead and reach out to him. But then, we need to set aside our mystery and turn to a much more important matter.”
“Really? What’s that?”
“Tomorrow’s our anniversary. That special dinner out while the kids spend the night at your parents’ place is probably not going to happen.”
“Really, the roads are still that bad?”
“Afraid so.”
She shrugged. “Well, I’ll be spending it with you. That’s the important part.”
He gave her that lopsided grin of his that still made her stomach flutter. “Glad to hear it. But I need you to pick a menu for a home-cooked meal from your favorite secret agent. It’s got to be something I can make from the fridge and pantry. Even if we could get to a store—which is questionable—the shelves are bare.”
“So, no milk, eggs, and toilet paper, huh?” The time-honored Pittsburgh reaction to a blizzard was to stock up on the big three.
“And no flour, fresh veggies, beef … I guess the Turnpike was closed and the delivery trucks are all delayed. And even the state stores are closed, so we’ll be toasting to seven years with whatever liquor we have on hand.”
She blinked in surprise. “I think there’s a bottle of Prosecco in the fridge—Ryan and Riley gave it to me at Mom and Dad’s white elephant exchange.”
“That’ll work.”
“That’s wild about the stores, though. I’ve been so busy researching our mystery that I haven’t kept up with the news.”
He leaned down and brushed her lips with a soft kiss. “The idea was to keep the kids occupied. Glad to see it worked on you, too.”
She swatted his arm and laughed. “You inventory the pantry. I’ll send Mr. Pierce a message.”
“It’s a deal.”
She turned to leave and then swung back to face him. “You’re sure we aren’t going to run out of coffee?”
He lowered his gaze and eyed her gravely. “I’m a highly trained federal agent skilled in risk assessment and survival tactics. I assure you there’s enough coffee to see us through. Anything less would be negligent, a failure of preparation, a dereliction of duty—”
“Okay, okay. I get it.”
“Not to mention the fact that keeping you supplied with sufficient coffee is a simple matter of self-preservation.”
She walked away, laughing to herself.
Sasha typed out the message, backspaced to delete it, and thought. She didn’t want to lie to Jack Pierce, but she did want to entice him. She tapped out a new note:
Mr. Pierce,
My family lives in the Pittsburgh neighborhood of Shadyside in a house once owned by Archie Cowman, who was a reporter for the Pittsburgh Press in the 1960s. We recently found a photograph of you in a box of Mr. Cowman’s personal items along with a set of Soviet Army military ID tags, among other things.
Would you happen to know to whom the tags belong? I’d love to return them to the owner or his family.
My phone number is (412)555-5555. Please call any time.
Sincerely,
Sasha McCandless-Connelly
She pursed her lips and read it over. After a moment, she shrugged and hit ‘Send.’ He’d respond, or he wouldn’t.
But she bet he would. If an MI6 agent and a GRU officer had both been in Pittsburgh when the bomber crashed, she was pretty sure they would’ve crossed paths.
She closed her laptop and walked over to the window. She thought she’d heard Finn’s distinctive squeal floating up from the backyard. Sure enough, Connelly, the kids, and the dog were having a snowball battle on the back deck. From what she could see, the action appeared to be three against one.
As she watched, Finn distracted his dad by jumping on his back while Fiona flung a fistful of loose snow in his general direction. Mocha leaped at the snow, barking and snapping.
She grinned and unearthed a pair of snow pants from the back of her closet. Her husband needed backup. She raced down the stairs, Jack Calvin Pierce forgotten for the moment.
In fact, she wouldn’t think about the retiree again until she found him climbing through her laundry room window just before dawn.
7
Wednesday, December 30
* * *
Sasha woke up cold. She shivered and reached for the blankets. But the heavy top quilt had been pulled away from her and was tucked under Connelly’s thighs. Compounding the issue, the dog was curled into the crevice behind Connelly’s knees, and the cat was nestled into his side, under his armpit.
“Traitors,” she whisper-hissed at the furry heat sources.
She slipped out of bed and felt around in the pre-dawn light for the pale blue fuzzy sweater coat Connelly had given her for Christmas. As she pulled the knee-length cardigan tightly around herself, she noted, not for the first time, that she wasn’t entirely sure the cardigan was supposed to be knee-length. As she crept from the bedroom, she remembered the date.
December 30. Her seventh wedding anniversary. Seven years of marriage to Leo Connelly.
She trudged down the stairs and into the kitchen to pour her first mug of coffee. Then she leaned against the counter and rewound seven years’ worth of memories.
Their union had gotten off to an inauspicious start. The remote Nicaraguan resort where they’d gathered their closest friends and family for a vacation/wedding had been raided by armed banditos. Even worse, the mercenaries had been hired by a psychopathic murderer whom they’d brought to justice. Jeffrey Bricker had promised to pay handsomely if the bandits killed the bride and groom.
Seven years later, in her dark kitchen, Sasha shivered and wrapped her hands more tightly around the hot ceramic of the coffee mug as she remembered the attack.
Darkness. Chaos. Fear.
Armed with pinking shears and a geisha pin, she and her closest friends had slunk out into the quiet hallways to confront the intruders.
“All’s well that ends well,” she told herself firmly.
And th
e raid had ended well. The would-be hostage-takers had been neutralized, and Sasha and Leo had decided to marry a day early, on New Year’s Eve Eve. She, in a blood-stained, torn gown. He, battered, but handsome.
Her eyes misted, and she rested the mug on the counter to dab at them with her overlong sweater sleeves.
One year later, on their first anniversary, with a winter storm bearing down, they’d been on the run from a dirty FBI agent, and, unbeknownst to her, the reason she was vomiting constantly was that she was pregnant … times two.
She laughed aloud. The first seven years of her union with Connelly had been anything but quiet and peaceful.
“Here’s to the next seven being blissfully boring,” she said softly, raising her mug to her lips.
She was rummaging through the refrigerator, wondering if she dared to serve her beloved breakfast in bed on the heels of the pancakes disaster, when she heard a soft thump in the laundry room.
It’s probably Java.
The cat was, well, catlike in the way he prowled through the house. He easily could have sneaked down the stairs unheard.
And then came the unmistakable, slightly louder thud of the window above the dryer closing.
She froze. Last time she checked, Java didn’t have thumbs.
She closed the refrigerator door without a sound and listened hard.
She’d have heard Connelly coming downstairs. He was not catlike.
The most logical explanation—illogical though it might be—was that there was an intruder in her house.
Her heart jackhammered, and her throat threatened to close. She took a long breath and scanned the kitchen for a handy weapon. The knives were locked away, out of reach of the twins. She snatched the corkscrew from the dish rack. It wasn’t much, but it was something. She stuffed the wine opener into her pocket and tiptoed toward the laundry room.
She stopped in the hallway just outside the laundry room’s door, which was ajar. She heard nothing on the other side of the door, but she felt a presence. A presence and a blast of cold air, no doubt from the window that must’ve been opened. But how?
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