by Walter Grant
He thought for a few seconds. What the hell, he’d give it a shot. “What time do you get off duty?”
She walked to the door, turned, and smiled brightly. “Have a good day, Mr. Kayne.”
Before he could respond she was gone. Max shrugged and mumbled to himself, “Well, nothing ventured nothing gained.”
What to do first? He wanted a car, he needed clothes, he wanted to see a movie, to walk on the beach, to sit in the park and just watch people. The list was endless. Also, he needed to furnish and decorate his apartment.
Henri had done well by him, arranging a two-year lease with the option to buy. Max was pleased with his condominium, although he liked referring to it as an apartment. Its eighteenth-floor corner location provided a fantastic view. West across Coronado and North Island was Point Loma, to the north he could see Mission Bay, and south across the Silver Strand the Coronado Islands were visible. Yeah, he was going to like being back in San Diego.
Time passed rapidly. He found the car be wanted, a 1967 Ferrari 330 Spider, not flashy like the popular 308, but small, quick, and fun to drive. Sherry had helped him choose furniture and decorate his apartment. She also influenced him in the selection of his wardrobe. Max had been attracted to Sherry from the beginning and persisted until she finally agreed to a dinner date, and within a few weeks they became good friends and romantically involved.
Six months and nearly two hundred thousand dollars later serious thoughts concerning employment and what to do with the rest of his life floated through his consciousness from time to time. He had first thought the money he’d received for the last eight years with the CIA would be enough. He would just live off the interest. But he had already been dipping into the capital rather substantially. And, too, logic told him inflation would continually reduce his buying power until for all practical purposes, he would be broke.
He had taken a course in bartending, gotten a real estate license, and completed a couple of courses in computer programming. It wasn’t that he couldn’t get a job—he didn’t want a job. You can’t live on the edge all your adult life and then in your midthirties settle into a nine-to-five job. He had been formulating a plan in the back of his mind for some time now, although up front he tried to deny its existence. But the very fact that he was taking another advanced computer programming course, had spent a considerable amount of money on equipment, had designed and loaded up highly technical and complicated programs told him it was time to admit the truth and get on with his plan.
Max had kept in touch with Henri and with some wrangling had persuaded him to provide access codes for the CIA, FBI, and DEA computers. Max had programmed his computer to interface with Henri’s via modem and to accept and store the codes automatically as they were updated in Henri’s computer.
Getting into other computers wasn’t very difficult providing you’d done a little research and had the right equipment and the proper codes. But getting into another computer wasn’t enough. The computer’s program might ask for any number of authenticators at any given time. You also needed safeguards of your own—otherwise, while you were busy hacking away at a computer’s memory banks, that very same system might be sorting through the data in your own memory banks, identifying you and your interests. Max felt comfortable with his system. He had spent over six months setting it up and so far it was working beautifully.
Max had been compiling data on KGB activity in the United States with cross-reference to name, code name, present or last known location, dates, associates, U.S. citizens contacted, areas of expertise. He could not believe how openly the KGB operated throughout the country. Maybe Americans didn’t believe Khrushchev was serious when he said to them, “Your grandchildren will live under communism.”
Well, Max knew Khrushchev was serious and believed world domination was still the Communists’ goal. America needed a deterrent for the three hundred thousand KGB agents who operated throughout the world openly and without fear of prosecution. The judicial system was certainly no deterrent. Anyone visiting the United States with a diplomatic passport was exempt from prosecution and there was always an overabundance of attorneys with an allegiance to money rather than country to protect the others. Someone needed to answer the Kremlin in terms they understood and respected. Max figured there was no one better for the task. He had been schooled and trained by the best, the Marines, the CIA, the SIS, the GRU, and the KGB. Perhaps destiny had led him from that day in the nation’s capital when he had resolved to help determine the future course of America to this very day and the only decision possible. He would work outside the law, becoming a fugitive himself. If caught, he might be executed by the very system he was trying to preserve. What the hell, it was better than tending bar and a lot less boring than selling real estate.
The conspirator had not been found in the embassy in Moscow. This left two other possibilities—CIA Headquarters at Langley, and the listening station in Alaska. A simple plan was devised. Messages with Jack Johnson’s old code name, Spider, were sent at specific times along with routine traffic. Spider was the code name given Jack Johnson at the very beginning of his association with the CIA because of his involvement in road racing during his assignment in Europe and his passion for open-top Italian sports cars. The coded messages did not arrive at Langley.
The operation near Haines in Alaska’s Southeast panhandle was well disguised. A few miles out of town a small, obscure military base used as a supply depot for the Aleutian campaign during World War II had been closed down in the early sixties. A minimal contingent had remained to secure and maintain the base.
In the midseventies, two men brought a construction crew to Eagle Point and promptly took up residence in one of the central buildings in the compound. Crates of equipment arrived and were moved into the building occupied by the newcomers. All the windows were painted black, the locks were changed, and two diesel generators were set up in hush houses near the building occupied by the strangers and their equipment—the security contingent was not privy to what went on inside the building. A year later, with the installation complete and all the equipment operating properly, the construction crew departed. The two remaining men lived and worked inside the building, supposedly tracking weather patterns developing in the Gulf of Alaska. Everyone around Haines believed the three large, newly erected satellite dishes near the building to belong to the National Weather Service. No one ever suspected that from this small, out-of-the-way military base the CIA operated a vital link to a U.S. spy network in the Soviet Union.
Max, for reasons unknown even to himself, had been gathering information on Howard Tolinger. Possibly it was because he had personally handled material Tolinger had turned over to the KGB, or perhaps he suspected that the colonel, having betrayed his country once, would do it again or that just maybe he had never stopped selling his country’s secrets. Whatever the reason, it seemed to have paid off.
A month after Colonel Tolinger had been transferred to Vandenberg Air Force Base and assigned to the SLC Six project, John and Evone Gilbird bought and moved into a house on Surf Road in Lompoc, California, near Vandenberg Air Force Base. The Gilbirds also purchased a bankrupt janitorial service on the outskirts of Lompoc. This had been a real stroke of luck. John and Evone Gilbird had been in “cold storage” since they had immigrated into the United States in 1968.
When the Soviet Union, along with Warsaw Pact allies, invaded Czechoslovakia and set up a Communist-controlled government, purges followed—a Stalinist practice that had become standard in the Eastern bloc. A practice that worked very well—simply arrest and kill anyone and everyone who opposes or disagrees with Communist ideals. During these purges many Czechoslovakians fled their homeland and migrated to the West. Among them were numerous KGB agents using birth certificates and other records of Czech citizens, who were either dead or in prison, to obtain passports. In this manner agents Sergey Gorsky and Marina Maslov, members of the Foreign Intelligence Directorate, became Jan and Marja Gottwolk, ref
ugees fleeing the Communist takeover of their native Czechoslovakia.
After arriving in the United States they legally changed their names to John and Evone Gilbird and eventually became naturalized Americans. Fortunately, a high-ranking party member from the Main Directorate of Archives and Reports defected to the West a few years later and as a gesture of good faith identified, for the CIA, some fifty KGB agents in cold storage in the United States. Jan and Marja Gottwolk were two of the agents identified.
Agents in cold storage sometimes waited decades before receiving an assignment. The Kremlin did not call one of these agents out of the “freezer” except for a mission of the utmost importance to the Soviet Union. Then and only then would they risk disclosing their true identity; in the meantime, they would live as model citizens. Although many of these cold storage agents were known to the CIA, the agency could do nothing until they were caught in the act of spying or otherwise breaking the law—under the guise of civil rights, the ACLU was always there to defend anyone engaged in spying against America.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to trust Sherry—she had become a major part of his life—but his past had made him suspicious of all women, especially those with whom he became close. So it had been merely coincidental that Gilbird’s name showed up on his computer screen. He was searching PSA’s reservation list to confirm Sherry was actually en route to San Francisco—to visit her father, or so she had said—when Gilbird’s reservation from Los Angeles to Juneau, Alaska caught his attention. Max Kayne’s gut feeling told him John Gilbird had a very important assignment.
Immediately after seeing Gilbird’s name on the reservation list Max had double checked the KGB agent’s itinerary then called PSA and Alaska Airlines and reserved seating on the same flights. The fact that the PSA flight Gilbird would board in Los Angeles originated at Lindberg Field in San Diego worked in Max’s favor. Max was relieved to learn that Sherry had a confirmed reservation on a direct flight from San Diego to San Francisco which left an hour earlier than the one he would be taking. He would make sure he did not arrive at the airport until her flight had departed—if she didn’t know he was flying to Juneau there would be nothing to explain.
The “Fasten Seat Belt” sign went off and a voice came over the PA system.
“Good morning. Welcome to Pacific Southwest Airlines flight 104. We will be serving complimentary coffee in just a few minutes. If you would like a cup, please lower your serving tray and the flight attendant will be with you shortly.” Max lowered his tray and watched a guy pushing a serving cart up the aisle. The name tag on his vest read, “Shawn, Flight Attendant.”
“Cream and sugar, sir?”
“Just cream.” Shawn placed a Styrofoam cup, three quarters full of coffee, and a small packet of nondairy creamer on the tray in front of Max, “Have a nice flight, sir.”
Yeah, thanks.” Max took a swallow of coffee and wondered, what had become of all the cute little girls wearing pretty smiles, miniskirts, and name tags declaring them to be stewardesses that he remembered from the sixties.
The captain announced their arrival at Los Angeles International and instructed passengers booked through to Seattle to remain on board the aircraft. All other passengers were to deplane at this time. The flight from San Diego took only thirty-five minutes while the unloading and loading of passengers took almost an hour.
Max watched the new arrivals file through the hatch, passing over some quickly, completely disregarding many, scrutinizing others more closely, and studying a few in detail. By the time they were taxiing into position for take-off he was fairly certain he had identified John Gilbird. He was about five feet ten inches tall, around fifty years old, and a little on the pudgy side at approximately one hundred-ninety pounds. Before they made connections for Juneau he would make sure.
It was twenty minutes before noon when the passengers finally began making their way up the ramp into the terminal at SEA-TAC. Max kept a half-dozen people between himself and the man he suspected to be John Gilbird. As the man approached the Alaska Airlines check-in counter Max stopped, feigning interest in a Northwestern Native Art exhibit. The man spent only a few minutes at the counter. After receiving his boarding pass he headed straight for the waiting area.
A woman with a little girl in tow approached the counter and began searching through her purse. Not finding whatever she was looking for she dumped the contents of her purse on the counter and put things back in her purse one at a time. Max made his way over and waited while the woman stuffed everything back inside her purse. She then frantically started going through her luggage.
“May I help you, sir?” Max stepped around the woman, who was still searching through her suitcase, and handed his ticket to the attendant at the counter. The man took the ticket and punched his computer keyboard a few times.
“Smoking or nonsmoking, sir?”
“Nonsmoking.” The man punched the keyboard a couple more times and the printer spat out a boarding pass.
“You’ll be boarding in about forty-five minutes at gate five.”
“Thanks. Say, I’m flying up with a business associate—can you tell me if he’s checked in yet?”
“What’s his name?”
“John Gilbird.” The attendant typed the name on his computer keyboard, waited about ten seconds, punched in some more information and without looking up, said, “Your friend checked in less than ten minutes ago.”
“Thanks again, I appreciate your help.”
The woman had given up her search and was trying to get everything back in her suitcase while yelling at the little girl. The little girl had started to cry. Max felt sorry for the kid but didn’t want to attract attention to himself by offering assistance. He turned back to the attendant at the check-in counter and asked, “What’s their problem?”
“The lady claims to have purchased round-trip fares in Juneau and has misplaced their return tickets.”
“How much will it cost them for first class?” The attendant consulted his computer,
“Three hundred eighty-seven dollars.” Max placed four one-hundred-dollar bills on the counter. “Make sure they get to Juneau. Handle it any way you want, just don’t mention my name.” The man smiled and nodded, “I’ll take care of it, sir. You have a good trip.”
Max knew very little about Alaska and nothing whatsoever about Juneau, except that it was the state capital. Knowing he would be at a disadvantage if he ended up playing cat and mouse in a place he knew absolutely nothing about, he found the gift shop and purchased a book on Southeast Alaska, with lots of maps and pictures. He would read it on the flight and whatever he learned in the next couple of hours would have to suffice.
Descending into a cloud bank that seemed endless Max began to wonder if they were going to fly straight into the ground. At 400 feet they broke through underneath and were lined up perfectly with the runway. As the passengers deplaned, Max, not wanting to lose Gilbird in the crowd, followed only a few yards behind. Carrying an overnight-sized suitcase and a shoulder bag, Gilbird bypassed the baggage claim area, hurried outside and headed straight toward a line of waiting taxicabs. A light rain was falling, not unexpected for a region averaging over a hundred inches of precipitation a year. A gusting wind carried not only a chill but the hint of snow as well. Max already suspected—from reading the book purchased at SEA-TAC, and now he knew for sure—he didn’t have the proper clothing.
He hung back until Gilbird’s taxi pulled away from the curb before hailing the next cab in line. The driver held the door open and Max, welcoming the opportunity to get out of the rain, which was coming down harder now, jumped into the back seat. The driver slammed the door, slipped in behind the wheel and asked, “Where to, Mister?”
“See that taxi just pulling into the traffic?” Max continued without waiting for an answer. “I want you to follow it, but don’t let them know your intentions.”
“Hey, what is this, some kind of cops-and-robbers game?”
Max had a
ssembled a few props for such an occasion. Henri was obviously aware of his friend’s intentions to impersonate various government officials and might not have approved, but had delivered, without requiring an explanation, the various blank identification cards requested. A Polaroid camera with the correct color background and a ninety-five-cent lamination kit from the five and dime store produced very authentic looking identification.
Pulling an official Government Issue ID case from his pocket and making sure the card he wanted was behind the plastic window, he flipped it open under the cabbie’s nose.
You could get someone’s attention and probably impress most people by showing any type of official law enforcement ID, but if you really wanted cooperation while scaring the hell out of them, you told them that you’re from the IRS. “I’m with the Internal Revenue Service and I would appreciate your help.”
The driver took a good long look, swallowed a couple of times and said, “Sure thing, Mister.”
“Okay, don’t lose this guy and I’ll double your fee, and if you assure me you aren’t going to start talking about how you’ve been tailing some guy for the IRS, I’ll add another hundred bucks.”
“Mister, there are three things I do well, drive a cab, follow instructions, and mind my own business.”
“Hey, you’re just the guy I’m looking for. What’s your name?”
“Bernie.”
They followed Gilbird downtown. When his taxi stopped in front of the Alaska Marine Highway ticket office Bernie continued past, made a U-turn in the middle of the next block, and parked on the opposite side of the street near the intersection.
“I get the feeling you’ve done this sort of thing before.” Bernie chuckled, but didn’t reply.
Gilbird jumped out of the taxi, holding the suitcase over his head to shield his face from the rain and sprinted for the ticket office doorway.
“Is the other driver a friend of yours?”