by Walter Grant
It was all there, names, codes, information on Dead Man, and much more, a suitcase full. Mitchell had obviously been planning this day for years. There were copies of pilfered documents from duty stations before he was assigned to Eagle Point. Most likely, he had been selling his country’s secrets for a long time while setting the stage for the big payoff—well he’d got his big payoff. Among Mitchell’s personal stuff was a passport in the name of Charles Randell Climer, along with an airline ticket from Prince Rupert to Montreal. Had all gone as planned, he would have disappeared without a trace. There was no way of knowing the damage that would have been done had all this material fallen into the hands of the KGB. He only knew lots of people in the Eastern bloc would have died. Well, he had done his job. Whatever the problems were now belonged to Henri.
Max moved everything belonging to Mitchell, along with the suitcase full of classified material, into stateroom 26. This would give Henri’s people plenty of time to board the Mat, since Gilbird had booked his room all the way to Seattle. After wiping his fingerprints from everything he had touched in the two rooms he locked the door and headed for the solarium and his sleeping bag.
By the time he reached the fantail, lights of Petersburg were glowing on the horizon. He tossed both stateroom keys over the side and leaned against the railing watching the rapidly approaching lights as the big ship steadily closed the distance. The cold wind blowing across the open deck sent a shiver through his body. But it wasn’t the chill of the icy winds gusting in his face that caused this involuntary reaction—it was the memories of eight long winters of watching blizzards sweeping down out of the Russian wastelands freezing everything in their path.
He checked his watch; it read 2:35. It was time to get some sleep. There was nothing to be done until they reached Wrangell.
The phone rang once and was followed by a series of tones, then started ringing again. Max knew Henri was not home and the call had been automatically routed to another location. Henri answered with a single word, “Tosi.”
Henri sounded tired. Max guessed he had probably gone without rest since learning of the circumstances in Haines.
“Have you ever heard of the Matanuska?” Max asked; there was no need to identify himself.
“Yeah, I believe it’s the name of a glacier somewhere near Anchorage, Alaska.”
“You’ve got the right ball park but the wrong game. This Matanuska is going to dock at pier 52 in Seattle early Friday morning. I believe you will find something very interesting in stateroom number 26. The room is registered to John Gilbird and may have been shared by Haskel Mitchell.”
“Yes, it does, indeed, sound interesting. How can I learn more about the Matanuska?” Henri inquired.
“The Alaska Marine Highway office in Juneau might be of some help.” Max replied. Henri would never ask and Max had no reason to volunteer an accounting of his own involvement. The conversation lasted no longer than a couple of minutes.
He made two more phone calls, one to Ketchikan, and one to Juneau. It was still dark when he walked out of the small ferry terminal in Wrangell and climbed the gangway back onto the Mat.
Max knew back in Washington, where the sun had been shining for at least six hours, wheels were already being set in motion and he wondered if he had given himself enough time. Perhaps it would have been wiser to wait until he reached Ketchikan before calling Henri. Oh well, what was done was done.
The smell of sizzling bacon and fresh-brewed coffee beckoned from the cafeteria. A good hot breakfast was just what he needed. After finishing an order of bacon, eggs, hash browns, and a stack of pancakes, he sat savoring a third cup of coffee and speculating on what might await him at Vandenberg.
The first rays of sunshine lit up snow-capped peaks of the aptly named Coast Mountains and began reaching down the slopes into the canal. He watched Prince of Wales Island slide past the starboard side as the Matanuska continued her journey southward. His thoughts, however, were not on the magnificent panorama that lay before him, but on another exquisite beauty with dazzling-green eyes and flaming-red hair, 3,000 miles away.
As the Mat eased up against the dock a voice came over the public address system instructing passengers wanting to disembark at Ketchikan to proceed to the car deck. Max stood up, reached underneath the chair and pulled out his backpack, swung it onto his shoulders, and adjusted the straps. For no particular reason he took one long last look around the solarium, noting that another tent had been erected. Walking toward the ladder he suddenly stopped, turned, and stared at the tents. No, not just one, but two tents had been added. Last night there had been two brown tents; now there was one brown, one green, and one orange. Someone had got off at either Petersburg or Wrangell. He was unable to explain why he found this seemingly unimportant fact disquieting. Max was among the first passengers to disembark. He crossed the ferry terminal parking lot past the lines of cars, trucks, and recreation vehicles waiting to be driven on board, destined either for Prince Rupert or Seattle and walked across the street toward a ten-year-old pick-up truck with large, faded lettering on the door that read, “Lynn Air Charters.” Underneath, in smaller lettering was printed, “Fly-in Fishing, Scenic Fjord and Glacier Flights.”
Max approached the young man leaning against the front of the truck and asked, “Is your name Willis?”
“Yep, Jake Willis, people just call me J.W. You the guy wants to go to Juneau?”
“Yeah, when can we leave?”
“The quicker the better. The weather is closing in and if we don’t get airborne pretty quick we may not get out at all today. Throw your stuff in the back and we can get started.”
Max was beginning to think he might have been a bit hasty in contracting with J.W. by telephone. The kid didn’t look to be a day over twenty and the bit about the weather wasn’t very comforting either. The book he’d read during the flight from Seattle had a chapter on Alaskan bush pilots and the number of crashes that occurred each year. It also mentioned many of these people were not licensed to fly. He wondered if J. W. was one of those unlicensed pilots. He was just about to pay the kid for his trouble and book the next northbound ferry when a taxi sped past and screeched to a stop in front of the ramp leading down to the ferry. One look at the man getting out of the taxi and Max knew he was stuck with J.W. no matter what. The man didn’t bother with a ticket; he showed the purser his credentials and hurried on board.
Max smiled to himself, yes, indeed, he had cut it close. He had forgotten about the new CIA man in Haines when he phoned Henri from Wrangell. Henri had simply called Eagle Point, briefed the guy on what he had just learned about the Matanuska, and had him charter a plane from Haines to Ketchikan. Max threw his backpack in the truck bed, turned to the kid and said, “Well, what’re we waiting for? Let’s go.”
J.W. and his plane looked to be about the same age. A single-engine Piper mounted on two long, skinny pontoons J.W. called floats did nothing to bolster his confidence in either the plane or the kid.
“Why the multicolored paint job?”
“Oh, I didn’t choose the colors. Whenever I need something I get it from a guy up by the airport who sells parts and runs what you might call an airplane junkyard. Whatever color he’s got is the color you get, but it’s a lot cheaper than buying new parts,” J.W. explained, as he untied the lines holding the tiny float plane to a rotting dock that bobbed up and down on oil drums as the water rose and fell. Max was once again having second thoughts about J.W. and his airplane, but following instructions, he climbed into the right seat and donned the headset hanging on the yoke in front of him.
J.W. stood on one of the floats and held onto a short line looped around a cleat bolted to the dock as he tossed the other lines into the airplane, then let go the line he was holding onto and climbed into the left seat. The engine coughed once, and then roared to life.
“How many airplanes does Lynn Air Charters operate?” Max inquired. The young man looked over and smiled. “You’re looking at the entire
fleet.”
Max barely had time to strap himself in before J.W. added power and they were skimming across the water.
J.W. positioned his headset, flipped a couple of switches, and then asked, “Can you hear me okay?”
Max answered, “Yep, loud and clear.”
“Everything looks okay,” the young aviator declared as he made a quick check of his instruments and pulled back on the yoke. “With the ceiling this low we’re going to have to stay over water all the way to Juneau.”
“Okay, you’re the flier. I’m just along for the ride.” Max was hopeful, but it crossed his mind that it just might be his last. He noticed the line J.W. had been holding onto before he entered the plane was trailing back from the wing. He didn’t ask any questions about the line; he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
They climbed out to 1,500 feet but were forced to descend to 1,200 to stay below the clouds. The farther north they got the faster the weather closed in. By the time they cleared Wrangell Narrows they were down to 400 feet. Before they reached Juneau they were flying only fifty feet above the water.
The little plane touched down heading straight into a dock just north of the Alaska Marine Highway pier. Another ferry, the Taku, was tied up where Max had boarded the Matanuska. A cruise ship was tied up south of the Taku.
J.W. kept the power on until they were within a hundred feet of the dock. When he finally pulled the throttle back they stopped abruptly alongside the floating platform. J.W. cut the engine, stepped out onto the float, and quickly climbed onto the dock. He reached up and grabbed hold of the line hanging down from the wing and then flipped the line over a cleat and secured it with a half hitch. “Okay, you can climb out now, but watch your step.”
Max grabbed his backpack on the way out and joined J.W. on the dock. They stood on the dock talking about the weather and what it was like flying in these conditions as Max handed the kid four one-hundred-dollar bills.
“Keep the change, you’ve earned every nickel.” The contract, made verbally over the telephone, was for three hundred and twenty dollars.
“Thanks. Well, I’d better get started if I’m going to get back to Ketchikan today.”
“You can’t be serious? You’re not going back out in this weather?”
“It should open up a bit once I get a little ways south,” J.W. explained, as he untied the half hitch and handed the line to Max before stepping onto the float. “Hold on to this for me until I get her started up again.”
“No problem, and thanks for the ride. It’s certainly been interesting.”
“Anytime,” J.W. yelled back as he climbed into the cockpit.
When the engine caught Max dropped the line and watched it trail in the water. As the plane picked up speed the line hung straight out behind the wing. The Piper had barely cleared the dock when J.W. opened the throttle and a few seconds later he was at full power. Max adjusted the straps on his backpack as he watched the tiny bush plane lift off and turn south, flying only a few feet above the water. He raised his hand in a salute to the daring young pilot and speculated that perhaps there was such a thing as reincarnation, and that conceivably he’d flown with Eielson.
It had already started to rain before Max reached the head of the pier and he was relieved to spot a taxi stand on the opposite side of the street. He crossed the street and headed directly for the two taxis parked by the curb.
“Where to, Mister?” The driver of the first taxi in line asked, holding open the rear door.
“The airport,” Max replied, as he slipped off the backpack, tossed it across to the opposite side of the back seat and climbed inside out of the rain.
The rain began more like a mist than actual rain, but turned into a drizzle by the time they reached the airport. Max went straight to the check-in counter and inquired about his reservation. Everything was in order. He paid for his ticket and received a boarding pass.
The weather was looking more ominous by the minute. The rain was now mixed with snow. According to the attendant at the check-in counter the airport was closed to inbound traffic, but was still open to all scheduled departures. Max knew less visibility was required for taking off than landing—once airborne you were controlled by radar so a lack of visibility wasn’t a problem. However, he was still concerned that the weather would continue to deteriorate and the airport would be closed to all traffic, in and out.
Near the lobby entrance he found the gift shop and purchased a canvas carry-on bag and a towel. He found the men’s room empty and wasted little time in transferring the plastic bag full of money from his backpack to the carry-on bag. Next he removed a fresh set of clothes from his backpack and hung them on hooks beside the mirror above the lavatory. He removed a pair of loafers and placed them beside the carry-on bag. The last item removed from the backpack was a leather travel case. By following steps demonstrated by the guy at the Alaskan Nugget Max quickly zipped the straps of the internal frame backpack into specially designed compartments and after completing a few simple adjustments the backpack looked like a piece of softsider luggage. Without hesitation he stripped off all his clothes and stuffed them into the backpack with the exception of the rubber boots. Wetting one end of the towel and using soap from his travel kit he took a quick sponge bath. After drying off with the other end of the towel he wrapped it around his waist like a sarong, lathered his face and shaved off the two-day-old stubble. He finished shaving and splashed water on his face to wash off the soap and used the towel to dry his face and hands before dropping it onto the floor. Standing on the towel he put on clean pants, slipped on fresh socks, and stepped into his loafers. A couple of minutes later he had finished rubbing a protective moisturizing cream into his clean-shaven face, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and concluded with the proverbial Marine Shower (deodorant and cologne). Finished with the travel kit he slipped it inside the backpack, tucked a new shirt into his trousers, knotted his tie, pulled on his jacket, dropped the towel in a trash can, picked up the two bags, and took one last look at his Juneau sneakers before turning toward the door.
Ten minutes ago Maxwell Kayne could have passed for a local. Now, standing at the baggage check-in counter he looked like an out-of-town business executive in a hurry to get back to his home office.
“We are on our final approach into San Diego, the time is 9:38 and the temperature is a comfortable 73 degrees. Please secure your service trays, bring your seats to a full upright position and fasten your seat belts.”
The flight attendant, named Tiffany, replaced the microphone and began walking along the aisle, asking those not yet strapped in to please comply. She wore pants with a matching jacket, a ruffled shirt, and a knit tie knotted with a half Windsor. Her hair was shaved on the sides like a Marine recruit in basic training. The remaining hair was combed up and forward in what he understood was “punk.” Why didn’t girls want to look like girls? Oh well, what the hell, who was he to tell people how to dress.
Looking out at the lights of San Diego twinkling in the distance his thoughts were suddenly filled with flashing-green eyes, flaming-red hair, silk dresses, and French perfume. Yes, just one glance and you knew Sherry was a girl; she was more than a girl, she was a woman. A woman he liked and enjoyed—yet there were things about her that made him feel uneasy at times, things that didn’t fit. Like her ability to fire a perfect score on the police firing range. The skill she displayed standing in a samurai circle. The fact that she spoke seven languages and had degrees from two notably distinguished universities, yet worked as a security guard in a high-rise condominium. The wheels slammed against the runway, jarring his thoughts and returning him to matters at hand.
The taxi ride from the airport to Chalter Tower had taken only fifteen minutes. It was good to be home. He was unaware of the smile on his face as he recalled his previous thought. “It was good to be home.” For the first time in almost twenty years he had a place to call home. It was a nice feeling.
Max pushed the door closed a
nd immediately froze. His senses told him someone was in his apartment. He eased the two bags to the floor, slipped off his loafers, then stood motionless for several seconds before carefully and without making a sound crossing the terrazzo entryway. When he felt the carpet under his feet he moved quickly but quietly toward the light glowing faintly from the area of the master bedroom. As he approached the bedroom Max could see, even with the lights dimmed, a lace nightgown laid out neatly on the satin sheets already turned down on his king-size bed. When the sound of splashing water reached his ears a smile slowly crossed his face as he envisioned Sherry soaking in a tub full of bubbles only a few feet away.
Without turning on a light Max removed the wallet from his inside coat pocket as he entered his dressing room and tossed it onto a vanity that ran the entire length of the room along one wall and was puzzled by the resultant clinking of glass. He switched on a light and found a lady’s make-up kit with bottles of various shapes and sizes scattered over the dressing table. He picked up a small bottle that lay on its side and sniffed the contents, instantly recognizing the delicate flowers with the undertone of musk as the scent custom-blended for Sherry and shipped to her at an exorbitant expense from a small but exclusive perfumery in Paris.
At the same instant that light flooded the dressing area, reflected off the mirrored walls and into the bathroom beyond, the splashing stopped. Moments later water in the bathtub erupted followed by the sound of bare feet striking marble tile. A heartbeat later, wet, soft, warm, and covered with soap bubbles she was in his arms.
LIES, LIES, AND MORE LIES