A Sound of Freedom

by Walter Grant

“Yeah, I know him.”

  “Do you think you can find out where he’s going from here?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Bernie picked up his microphone, “Yo, Chuck, what’s up?”

  Chuck’s voice came over the radio loud and clear. “Not much, just waiting around for some guy. How about you?”

  “Same thing. What’s your next stop?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “It’s worth a six-pack if you let me know.”

  “See what I can do. What’s happening, man?”

  Bernie lowered his voice as though trying to keep a fare, sitting in the back seat, from overhearing, “Jealous wife.”

  “See what I can do,” Chuck repeated.

  A few minutes later John Gilbird dashed out and threw himself into the back seat of the taxi. As soon as the door closed a loud click came over the radio followed by Gilbird’s voice. Chuck was holding the microphone key open so the entire conversation could be heard over the radio.

  “Take me to the ferry terminal.”

  “Which one, Auke Bay or Juneau?” Chuck asked.

  “I don’t know. She just said the ferry leaves from downtown.” The radio went dead.

  “Okay, we got it, do we follow him?” Bernie asked.

  “Not yet.” Max replied.

  For several minutes Max and Bernie talked about the things you always talk about when you’re trying to pass the time, they talked about the weather, entertainment, and the economy. After about five minutes Max got out of the cab and walked into the Alaska Marine Highway ticket office.

  A woman of about thirty-five, a little on the chubby side, looked up from the paperback romance she was reading, and asked, “Can I help you?”

  “I was supposed to meet a friend here, but I’m a little late. You wouldn’t happen to know if a man has been in here by the name of John Gilbird?”

  The woman typed something on her computer keyboard and checked the monitor. “You just missed him; he was in about five minutes ago and purchased passage to Seattle.”

  “Well, I guess he decided not to wait around for me; how much to Seattle?”

  “Passage from Juneau to Seattle will be eighty-five dollars. However, there are no staterooms available; you’ll have to sleep either in the lounge or in the solarium.”

  “Well, that’s okay; I can bunk with my buddy. What’s the number of his stateroom?” She consulted her computer again. “He’s in stateroom 26, on the main deck.”

  Max handed over a C-note and waited while the lady typed the necessary information into the computer. Punching one last key she turned and waited for the printer to serve up the appropriate paperwork.

  “Okay, Mr. Anderson, you have confirmed passage on the Matanuska from Juneau to Seattle departing from the downtown terminal at five twenty this afternoon. I suggest you board at least an hour before sailing.”

  “Thank you.” With ticket in hand Max returned to the taxi and explained the problem of berthing to Bernie and asked his advice.

  “Well, personally I like the solarium. You get a great view, lots of fresh air, and unlike the lounge, once you’ve staked out your territory it’s yours for the rest of the trip. And besides all that you meet a better class of people.” Bernie gave Max one of those smiles difficult to interpret. Max couldn’t tell whether or not Bernie was serious, but when he added, “The tourists all ride up front and the locals hang out in the solarium,” Max had the feeling Bernie was just having some fun with a cheechako.

  “Of course you’re going to need some clothes and equipment, otherwise you’ll get cold and maybe a little wet if this rain keeps up.”

  “I’m already cold and wet.”

  Bernie laughed. “Well, we can fix that if you don’t mind spending a few bucks.”

  “I’m putting myself completely in your hands.”

  At the Alaskan Nugget Outfitter Bernie suggested several items, including thermal underwear, heavy wool socks, a wool shirt, and a pair of wool pants, a Gore-Tex parka, down vest, rain pants, a pair of black rubber boots he called Juneau sneakers, a sleeping bag, and a rainproof backpack. In the dressing room Max stripped off his wet clothes, slipped into his new duds, stuffed the wet clothing into a heavy plastic bag and placed them in the bottom of his backpack. When Max walked out of the dressing room Bernie looked him up and down, shook his head and smiled, “Well, you won’t pass for a sourdough but you’re going to stay warm and dry. Where to now?”

  “Back to the airport.”

  Max picked up his suitcase, which was still making the round-trip to nowhere on the conveyer belt, and walked to the nearest telephone.

  The phone rang twice before Henri answered. The conversation lasted only a couple of minutes. When Max hung up the receiver he stood looking at the instrument the way a cat sometimes stares at a blank wall, as though watching something on the other side. He stood motionless, eyes narrowed, lips tight, mouth pulled back at the corners, watching some scene unfold somewhere in the recesses of his mind.

  “Excuse me, are you finished with your call?” an elderly lady asked.

  “Yeah, sure.” The spell broken, he picked up his suitcase and headed toward the waiting taxi.

  “Where to now, Mister?”

  “I’ve got a ferry to catch.” Max replied, between clenched teeth.

  It wasn’t the words of the barely audible response that made the cabbie uneasy, but rather something cold and calculating inferred by the voice itself that sent a chill creeping up his spine. When Bernie glanced in the rearview mirror the face he saw looking back at him did nothing to relieve his anxiety.

  “Are you okay, Mister?”

  Max was immediately aware, by the uneasiness in Bernie’s voice and the concern expressed by the question, he had made a mistake. He had let his emotions show. It wouldn’t happen again. Luckily, it made little difference at this particular time, Bernie was no threat, but now he might not be as willing to assist.

  Max was suddenly aware of another problem. During the last couple of hours a strange sort of friendship had developed between the two and it troubled him that Bernie now had misgivings. A sure sign he was losing his edge. He could not afford to be concerned about other people’s feelings. Nevertheless, he felt compelled to try and restore the relationship, even if it was a relationship built on lies.

  “Yeah, I’m okay, I’m just tired.” He hesitated, then continued, “Tired of everything, tired of following people to hell and back, of never getting a good night’s sleep or a home-cooked meal, tired of never knowing where my next assignment will be. Sometimes I just want to flush it all.”

  “I hear you, man.” The serious tone of Bernie’s voice conveyed his understanding.

  Well, it looked like the cabbie was more at ease now. Another lie or two should do the trick. Max wondered if anyone ever told the truth. Maybe everybody’s life was, in one way or another, a fabrication.

  “Do you have a family?” Max asked, his voice now touched with melancholy.

  “I’ve been married three times, but none of them worked out.”

  “Well, it looks like I may be joining your club. Mine doesn’t seem to be working out either.” He hesitated again and inhaled deeply and let it out slowly for effect. “Well, that’s enough of this crap; I’ve got to get on with my job. Would you do me one more favor?”

  “Sure, what do you need?”

  Bernie was back in the fold. “Let’s make one more stop at the Alaska Marine Highway ticket office.”

  “Hey, no problem. And, say man, for what it’s worth, I hope things work out for you back home. That sort of thing is hard on a man, I know, I’ve been there and done that too many times.”

  “Thanks Bernie, I appreciate it.”

  The conversation continued, but on a lighter note, and as they eased through the traffic Max transferred the contents of his suitcase to the newly purchased backpack, except for one soft leather case slightly larger than a pack of cigarettes. The leather case he slipped into t
he pocket of his parka. The plastic bag of wet clothing went into the suitcase. Next, he stripped off the airline routing tags and the identification tag attached earlier at the insistence of the clerk at the baggage check-in counter in San Diego. He removed the identification information tag the manufacturer had felt compelled to provide, from behind the plastic window and filled in the name, Haskel Mitchell, Eagle Point, Haines, Alaska. Insuring the suitcase was locked, he placed it in the front seat as the taxi came to a stop in front of the ticket office.

  “Take this inside and tell them you dropped off a passenger at the ferry terminal and you later discovered his suitcase. Ask them to check and see if he’s booked on the ferry leaving Juneau today. If he is, find out where he’s going and which stateroom he’s in. If they’re uncooperative, tell them the guy was a big tipper and you’re hoping for a reward if you return the suitcase.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Bernie was back in a couple of minutes, tossed the suitcase onto the front seat, slipped in under the steering wheel, turned and gave Max a big grin. “Your man is in stateroom 24 on the main deck. He’s getting off at Rupert.”

  “Getting off where?”

  “Prince Rupert, British Columbia. The ferry makes one stop in Canada just below Ketchikan. It’s the last stop before Seattle.”

  “Thanks, Bernie.”

  “Nothing to it, man. I think I’m a natural for this sort of work. Does it pay well?” They both laughed.

  “It doesn’t pay well enough, but if I ever need a full-time assistant I’ll look you up, okay?” Max wondered if the man would have been as willing to help him if he had known the truth.

  “It’s a deal. Say, I’d better get you on down to the ferry, she’s gonna sail in about forty minutes.”

  Max had discovered earlier, at the Alaskan Nugget, goods and services did not come cheap in Alaska. He was reminded again when Bernie flipped down the flag on the meter; it read $142. He held out four crisp hundred-dollar bills. Bernie shook his head.

  “Ah man, you don’t have to do that.”

  “A deal’s a deal, okay?”

  “Okay, thanks.” They shook hands and Max headed for the gangway, where the purser took one copy of his ticket and informed him he would need to show the other copy upon arrival at Seattle. The second copy would also permit him to depart and return to the ship at any port along the way.

  He found the solarium all the way aft on the uppermost deck. All deck chairs along the starboard side and forward bulkhead were either occupied or otherwise staked out with the traditional backpack or sleeping bag. The rule of thumb, according to Bernie, was to choose the starboard side going south and the port side coming north. This would provide the best protection from weather since the wind always came out of the Gulf of Alaska. The glass would protect you on the windward side, but the wind and rain would whip in across the solarium’s open end aft and make the trip a bit uncomfortable for people on the leeward side. Bernie had passed this bit of information along as though it was a secret shared by only a few. Obviously the secret was out. Max spread out his sleeping bag on a chair midways along the port side, shoved his backpack underneath, and set out to explore the ship.

  It didn’t require much time to find the two staterooms, 24 and 26. Obviously the day for the exchange of money for state secrets had been chosen well in advance. The fact that Gilbird and Mitchell had side-by-side staterooms was not a coincidence—they had been booked well in advance. On the same deck, forward of the purser’s office, he found a sleeping lounge, occupied mostly by older people who preferred the large reclining chairs and the controlled environment to the solarium. One level above the main deck was the forward observation lounge. The majority of passengers seated in the comfortable couches and arm chairs were tourists all set for the scenic cruise down the famous Inside Passage. Further aft was a bar, a game room for kids, a dining room, and a cafeteria. Max had slept only a couple of hours the night before and it seemed like a good opportunity to check out the comforts of his new sleeping bag. However, the aromas drifting out of the cafeteria persuaded him to postpone crawling into his sleeping bag for a little while longer.

  Balancing a bowl of chili, a piece of hot apple pie, and a glass of milk on a tray he walked toward the no-smoking section. He was just about to put his tray down when he spotted John Gilbird sitting alone at another table nursing a cup of coffee. On impulse he walked over, placed his tray opposite Gilbird, pulled out a chair and was about to sit down.

  “There’s no one sitting at the next table,” Gilbird snapped.

  “I like this one.” Max replied as he placed his food on the table opposite Gilbird. After handing the empty tray to a nearby busboy he sat down and began eating.

  The KGB agent was quite nervous and fidgeted almost continuously. Max had nearly finished his chili before Gilbird pushed his chair back from the table and stood up.

  “Sit down, Comrade Gorsky,” Max commanded, in perfect Russian. Startled, the man sat down without hesitation. He tried to remain calm, but was unprepared for anything so profound and stammered out his reply in English. “You have mistaken me for someone else.”

  “No, Sergey, there is no mix-up,” Max continued, still speaking in Russian. “How’s Marina?”

  “I do not understand.” Again, Gilbird spoke in English.

  Max did not respond right away. He continued to eat while thinking everything through one last time. He could have waited until Gilbird was alone and least expected trouble, rather than alerting him to some impending danger. That would have been the sensible thing to do, but this had been spur-of-the-moment, brought on by a combination of the chance meeting and the telephone conversation with Henri Tosi. At the moment, emotion ruled his actions and logic was of little concern. Max had already decided the agent’s fate, but for the moment he would let the man sweat.

  Max had expected Gilbird’s flight up the Pacific coast to end in Haines and was puzzled when, arriving in Juneau, he immediately booked passage on the ferry to Seattle. It became quite clear, however, when Henri filled him in on the recent events in Haines.

  Since only two men at Eagle Point were privy to data transmitted by Dead Man, the plan to expose the guilty man in Haines was simple. One man at Eagle Point would be relieved of his duties with orders to return to Langley, for a supposedly routine indoctrination before reassignment to another listening station located in Asia. Messages would again be transmitted from Moscow using Jack’s code name, Spider. If the messages arrived at Langley, the conspirator had been the one transferred, if they failed to arrive then he would be the one remaining at Eagle Point.

  Henri had learned, only a few minutes before Max called, the CIA agent arriving at Eagle Point had found one man still in bed with his throat slashed and the other man missing. Henri had been notified immediately and extra CIA people were presently on their way to Haines.

  Max had learned from Bernie that once each week an Alaska State Ferry left Seattle bound for the upper Lynn Canal and stopped at several towns along the Inside Passage. The ferry turned around at Skagway, the northernmost community on the canal, and made the same ports of call on the return trip, arriving in Seattle exactly one week later.

  The “Mat,” as it was known by Alaskans, was on her return trip to Seattle. The Mat’s last stop before Juneau was Haines. Haskel Mitchell in stateroom 24 had killed his coworker earlier that day and was on his way out of the country. Mitchell could not have been alerted to the investigation; the transfer orders were being hand-carried by the newly assigned agent. The timing of events was strictly coincidental. Mitchell had not killed simply to cover his tracks. The crime would have been discovered when routine security inquiry codes went unanswered. He killed in order to buy enough time to make his deal with Gilbird and get out of the country. A few extra hours was all he needed. Sailing time for the Mat, including port calls, was about thirty-six hours from Haines to Prince Rupert. He needed only two days to meet with Gilbird, get paid for his pilfered i
nformation, and disappear through Canada.

  Max continued to eat and consider his choices. He could call Henri and report everything he knew about Mitchell and Gilbird. Mitchell would be arrested—then what? The State Department could not make public the fact that what everyone believed to be a weather station at Eagle Point, Alaska was actually an intelligence-gathering station, operated by the Central Intelligence Agency. A deal would be struck and therefore, no trial and no conviction, and in return for silence a murderer and traitor would be allowed to go free. Gilbird would be deported as persona non grata and whatever the KGB was involved with at Vandenberg would continue undetected. Max knew he had no choice. It was time to stand up for what he believed in although he would become a fugitive and before he was finished would most likely head the FBI’s most wanted list.

  John Gilbird sat watching the stranger, who spoke his native language and knew his Russian name, waiting for him to speak again. But the stranger did not speak again; he only stared across the table and continued eating. Gilbird felt the muscles in his face twitch; his fists were so tight his fingernails were cutting into his palms, and he knew he was going to become sick. The minutes seemed like hours. He wanted to run, but he feared the consequences. He wrestled with his emotions as long as he could before summoning every ounce of strength and composure he had left in his body and asked, “Who are you?”

  He had intended the question to sound demanding, but his voice broke and it became nothing more than a plea from a frightened man.

  “My name is not important.” Max spoke to the man in English for the first time. Lowering his voice almost to a whisper, forcing the man to lean closer in order to hear, “We cannot talk here; let’s go to your cabin.”

  “I don’t have a room, they were all taken.” He knew all too well what happened to agents who made mistakes. When a superior called unexpectedly there was always reason for concern, and the meeting usually ended unpleasantly for the subordinate. He did not want to be alone with this stranger but what other choice was there? Again he had the urge to flee, but there was nowhere to run. For a moment he considered finding the ship’s captain, confessing everything, and asking for political asylum. He liked America; he had a much better life here than he had ever had in the Soviet Union. Several times, in the last couple of years, he had considered going to Immigration and asking for asylum, but his life kept getting more complicated and he had never found the courage to take the first, crucial step. Maybe it wasn’t too late—what if he killed the stranger? Why not? He had lots of money with him; he could change his name and just disappear. He was jolted back to reality when the stranger leaned close to his face and growled, “You’re in stateroom 26 on the main deck, now let’s go.”