by Walter Grant
Max guided the Ferrari to a stop opposite Lompoc’s Central Post Office, killed the ignition, and punched the elapsed time clock. It read 3:56. The trip meter stood at 251. The drive from San Diego had taken just under four hours, considerably less time than he had expected. He considered putting the top up but one look at the blue sky and bright sunshine convinced him otherwise.
He walked back to the intersection of Mission and Los Osos, turned left and continued for another block and a half before crossing the street and entering an office with large black and gold lettering on a plate glass window that read:
“Real Estate, Sales and Rentals.” A well-dressed middle-aged lady seated behind a desk facing the door looked up from behind a newspaper and asked, “May I help you?”
“I have an appointment with Mr. Dickerson.”
“Are you Mr. Alexander?”
“Yes, Raymond Alexander.”
In a single movement she put the newspaper aside, pushed the chair back from the desk, stood up, and motioned for Max to follow as she turned toward the rear of the office. “This way, please.”
Max followed the lady through the room past four unoccupied desks toward one of two doors set into the rear wall. She opened the door without knocking and ushered Max into a small but comfortable office. After introductions the receptionist, whose name was Helen, promptly departed and, Max surmised, returned to her newspaper.
Ed Dickerson, a man of about sixty-five, had a pleasant smile and a firm handshake, and after the proper amount of meaningless chitchat he got down to business. “Mr. Alexander, I have only one property in the area in which you expressed an interest. However, should you find it unsatisfactory I have several other rentals in very nice neighborhoods. We can take a look at one or all and start right now, if it’s convenient.”
Twenty minutes later, Ed stopped his five-year-old Buick in a parking lot at the end of the road, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. He pointed to the north, “The property I’m going to show you is up the coast a ways.”
Without further comment he turned the Buick around and drove back along Costa Vista for about a mile before turning onto a narrow, twisting, road that crossed the Santa Ynez River and wound its way through a dense grove of eucalyptus. “There isn’t much privately owned land in this area. It’s mostly owned by the military, the railroad, or the Department of Parks and Recreation.”
Dickerson kept up a continuous monologue on local history covering everything from the time of Spanish land grants and the days of the grand ranchos up to and including a step-by-step development of the space launch complex at Vandenberg.
The trees gave way suddenly to the rugged Pacific coast, barren except for chaparral and an occasional Monterrey cypress. A few houses were scattered along the cliffs at the ocean’s edge. Surf Road was appropriately named; ocean swells crashed against sea stacks just offshore and turned to white spray and foam before rushing on to crash again on the rocks two hundred feet below.
They continued driving for five or six miles until the road ended near a 12-foot chain link fence topped with the traditional strands of barbed wire. A large sign proclaimed everything beyond to be military property and warned against trespassing.
“Thought I’d give you the full twenty-five-cent tour,” Dickerson remarked, as he turned the car in a tight one-eighty and drove back along the road for about an eighth of a mile before turning into a driveway leading to a modest, single-story house built perilously close, Max thought, to the cliff’s edge.
As he unlocked the front door, Ed explained the house would be available for two years, complete with furnishings, while the owners, an Air Force family, completed their last overseas assignment before retiring from service. Max walked from room to room making polite comments about the interior as he listened to terms and conditions of the lease when in, fact, the only thing that interested him was the house at the end of the road. There was no need to check the address; he’d spotted the house long before they had reached the turnaround near the chain link fence. At least half a dozen antennas could be seen attached to the house, and two of a dish type that resembled satellite television antennas were erected in the backyard. Max needed only a cursory check to determine the dish-type antennas were definitely not used for television reception. He wondered what electronic eavesdropping equipment was inside the house.
The roar of a powerful rocket motor interrupted his thoughts. As the sound waves intensified and the windows, cabinet doors, and several other things in the house started vibrating Dickerson motioned for Max to follow him outside. On a rear patio they watched an intercontinental ballistic missile climb up through the blue California sky until only the vapor trail was visible. Max also watched the two satellite dish antennas tracking the missile as it angled out across the Pacific Ocean towards the Hawaiian Islands.
Max could only guess at the number of people aboard Russian ships and submarines tracking the ICBM and recording data from its telemetry as it headed toward its target somewhere off Kwajalein, five thousand miles downrange. He was surprised that the KGB, by using a land-based tracking station, would risk blowing the cover of agents who had been in the freezer for almost twenty years when a submarine twelve miles off the coast or a trawler fifty miles out could do the same thing just as easily and would probably be lots better equipped.
“That’s a Minuteman,” Dickerson volunteered, answering the unasked question. “The air force test silos are about eight miles up the coast. Two or three times a year they pull one of the older missiles out of a silo in Montana, Wyoming, or Colorado, and sometimes even Alaska and bring them down here to find out how well they work.
“In a month or two they’ll start testing the MX Peacekeeper, and the first shuttle launch from California is scheduled for next February.” Ed pointed to the south. “The Atlantis will launch from SLC six”—Dickerson pronounced it slick six—“and will land over here on the mesa.” He pointed again, indicating the area above the Minuteman test silos.
With a broad grin he added, “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to the noise.”
Max wiped the grin from Dickerson’s face, replying in cold earnest as he looked dead into the man’s eyes, “Noise? Hell, that’s not noise. That’s just a sound of freedom.”
Back at Dickerson’s office Max plunked down the first and last month’s rent plus a rather large security deposit, signed the two-year lease required by the owners, received a receipt from Helen, and departed. He would be able to move in anytime after the first of the month. Max still could not believe things were working out so well; the house was perfect—everything was perfect. How long would his luck hold?
Traffic through Los Angeles moved fairly well, even for afternoon rush hour. Still, by the time Max turned off Interstate 5 onto the Pacific Coast Highway just below San Clemente the sun was already sinking into the ocean behind Catalina Island. He nosed the Ferrari into a pullout overlooking Trestle Beach, shut off the engine, and sat back enjoying the panorama while memories of almost half a lifetime ago flowed through his mind. It was here, as a young marine, he had learned to surf.
In those days you could ride your board all day and see maybe a dozen other surfers. Looking now he could count half that many on one wave, all trying to catch a hot one before they lost the light. A lot of years had passed since he last hot-dogged on a smoker or shot a curl. Could he still do it?
California sunsets were more spectacular than he remembered. A giant red ball slowly sank below the horizon and the sky became a kaleidoscope of crimson and gold. As he sat looking out over the Pacific his thoughts took him back to key events and people that had shaped his life since those carefree and innocent times; when after a day of surfing he would lie in the warm sand on Trestle Beach and watch the sun sink into the Pacific. He had escaped reality often by returning, in his mind, to Trestle Beach when there was a need to hide his emotions, his pain, his fears. This was his quiet place, where no one could touch him and nothing could harm him.
He wa
s unaware of how long he sat looking down on the ocean, reliving the past, but now, driving back along the PCH his thoughts were filled with the present and the one thing that made it all worthwhile. And she was waiting, only forty minutes away. As the sunset faded into dusk, the blissful memories and fantasies of the past were giving way to the pleasures and delights of present-day reality. Sherry was opening up a new world for him, a world he wanted and needed, but a world he feared as well. He was familiar with the old expression relating to love as an unknown where fools rush in and angels fear to tread. There had been other women, but now for the first time he knew he was just another fool. Yes—he was in love.
Max poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the breakfast bar. A note in Sherry’s handwriting leaned against a glass dome covering a bran muffin, a cup of yogurt, and a small bowl of fresh strawberries. The note read: “Had to leave early, didn’t want to wake you, be home for lunch. Love, S.”
He pondered her use of the word home as he removed the glass cover and looked at his breakfast. What he really wanted was bacon and eggs with hash brown potatoes and toast with butter and marmalade. He ate the fruit and yogurt but couldn’t resist adding cream cheese to the bran muffin—Sherry had tossed the butter months ago and replaced it with a tasteless low-cholesterol spread.
With a fresh cup of coffee in hand he studied the contents of John Gilbird’s wallet. For the past week he had been unable to find anything to connect the KGB agent to Tolinger or Vandenberg and there was no reason to suspect anything would change today. However, the wallet was a place to start. Perhaps he had overlooked something—one way or another he had to make something happen. So far, everything he had turned up showed Gilbird to have been a pillar of the community with a successful business, a nice house, a respectable wife, and a substantial bank account. He paid taxes, voted, served on jury duty, and was a deacon in the church. Something very important to the Soviets was going down; the Kremlin would not otherwise risk losing an agent buried this deep. Two items looked promising: one, a permit to operate a business in Santa Barbara County, and the second, an expired credit card with a telephone number written in the space provided for the cardholder’s signature.
Using a cordless telephone he dialed the number listed on the operating permit. On the fifth ring a female voice answered. “Spic and Span janitorial, can you hold?”
Reaching for his coffee cup he wondered why no one ever waited for an answer before hitting the hold button. A few seconds later the voice came back. “Can I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to John Gilbird, please.”
“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Gilbird is on vacation.”
“When is he due to return?”
“I don’t know, sir. He left unexpectedly and didn’t leave a number where he can be reached.”
“Well, that leaves me with a problem. Mr. Gilbird applied for a very large insurance policy about a month ago. When he failed to keep the appointment for his required physical and didn’t reschedule another appointment the insurance company got a little uptight and hired me to look into the matter. You see, when a very large policy with double indemnity for accidental death is paid up for two years on the day of application, and the applicant fails to keep a required appointment and cannot be located, the company executives get a little squirrelly and start imagining all sorts of things like a possibly failing business and maybe suicide among other things. So, they’ve hired me to relieve their anxieties and in order to do that I need to either talk to Mr. Gilbird or take a look at your books.” Max hesitated for a moment for effect, before asking, “You do see my problem?”
“Yes sir, I do. But I can’t authorize you to look at our books. You’ll need to see Mr. Bell.”
“Well okay. May I speak with him, please?”
“I’m sorry, sir, the janitorial business is strictly nighttime and weekends. I’m normally the only one here during the day; you should call tonight about nine and talk to Mr. Bell.”
“Okay, I’ll do that. Thanks for your help.” Well, the stage was set for his appearance at Spic and Span janitorial.
The number on the credit card had the same Lompoc exchange; he surmised the area code would also be the same. The phone rang only twice and expecting someone to answer he almost missed the beep of a telephone answering machine. Normally, answering machines had a recorded excuse from someone for not personally answering and the tone was a signal for you to leave a message for the person who was too inconsiderate to answer in the first place. However, there was no message, just a tone signaling the caller to either leave his message or dial in the correct code to receive a message. This was a good vehicle for exchanging information while remaining anonymous. The phone was probably set up in an empty apartment under a phony name with little chance of being traced to anyone. However, with time and a little more information he might be able to turn up something useful. But for the moment, it would wait. Right now, there were other things needing his attention.
He finished his coffee, put Gilbird’s wallet away, cleaned off the breakfast bar, turned Sherry’s note over and wrote, “Sorry about lunch. Had to go out, Max.”
Ten minutes later, riding the elevator to the lobby, he reflected on Sherry’s note and his own response. Why hadn’t he signed the note with love, as she had done? He didn’t know. He wanted to, but just couldn’t bring himself to actually write the words. Maybe it was because he had never known and couldn’t identify with love. Most women in his past were now faceless and nameless, associated only with a place, a time, or an event. Some he was unable to recall by the time he sobered up the following morning, but others haunted his memories and were most likely responsible for his present insecurity and distrust. Peggy Jean, the class tease, was only a childhood sweetheart. Nui was a girl merely trying to get out of Southeast Asia any way she could. Jeanne—ah yes, he would probably never forget Jeanne, although she was nothing more than an assignment and a ticket to the Communist camp. With Lara, a member of the Bolshoi Theater Ballet, he had by association achieved a certain refinement for which he would be forever grateful. There were many beautiful memories of Lara. At times she could almost make him forget he was a prisoner behind the Iron Curtain. Yes, at times he could put it out of his mind, but he never forgot, not even in the most intimate of moments. She was a Party member and he knew she would report him if he ever, even for a second, let his cover slip. She would report him to the KGB, not necessarily out of loyalty to the Party, but out of fear. Women in his life had always been women he could never fully trust. Perhaps he couldn’t tell Sherry he loved her because her being a woman was reason enough for suspicion. She had told him very little about herself. Neither had questioned the other about their past life. However, he had done a little investigating and found she had never paid into social security or filed an income tax return. She had moved into an apartment in La Jolla exactly two weeks before he arrived in San Diego. Her California driver’s license was issued one day after she paid cash for a new Porsche Carrera Targa. A week later she started work as a security guard at Chalter Tower. It had to be coincidence. Even if the KGB knew he had double-crossed them and was living in San Diego they couldn’t possibly have gotten an agent, not even one out of cold storage, in place on such short notice. Still, he was unable to put it out of his mind. The elevator door opened, disrupting his thoughts. As he stepped out into the lobby he was thinking of other things. Sherry and the past were pushed to the back of his mind.
The trolley ran from downtown San Diego to the San Ysidro-Tijuana border crossing, making about fifteen stops along the way. Max got off at the first stop in National City. He had no trouble spotting the ‘57 Chevrolet with a chopped top, a flame paint job and its suspension lowered until it appeared to be only about two inches off the ground. As he approached, a young Chicano slid off the fender, took a few steps forward, extended his hand, and stated, “Hey man, everything’s ready.”
Max shook his hand, replying, “Great! Let’s take a look.”
Max had realized some months back that running around in a twenty-year-old Ferrari with the original Italian racing-red paint job was no way to keep a low profile. He started considering options. But any car with enough power to run at the speeds he desired stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. He remembered a friend from Nam always talking about car clubs—locally known as Low Riders—around San Diego, especially the South Bay area. The only thing Carlos cared about was cars. He talked cars, dreamed cars, and would spend hours telling anyone willing to listen about all the things guys back home could do with engines, transmissions, suspension systems, and so forth. If you showed too much interest he would break out the latest pictures his brother had sent and start explaining every detail. Carlos had been blown away at Khe Sanh three weeks before his DEROS—an acronym for Date Eligible for Rotation from Overseas; in Nam they’d referred to DEROS as date eligible for rotating back to the world.
Max had located his friend’s family in Chula Vista. They were very proud of Carlos. His medals, along with the flag that had draped his casket, hung protected by glass on their living room wall, surrounded by numerous photos he had sent home.
Max stared long and hard at the snapshot of a young Marine corporal wearing Vietnamese love beads and a Montagnard bracelet; the ace of spades from a deck of cards was stuck onto the front of his helmet and “Make Love, Not War,” was painted on one side. He knew that painted on the other side of the helmet were the words “I’m short.” The name “Jack Johnson” was written in the margin underneath. A month after the picture was taken Jack Johnson was in the EVAC Hospital at Saigon and Carlos was on his way home in a body bag.
They had talked at length about Carlos and Nam before Max eased the conversation around to car clubs. Carlos’ younger brother, Jorge, was president of the Gatos Frios, but now they were more than just a car club. The “Cool Cats” owned an auto repair shop where they taught complete engine overhaul, transmission rebuilding, and frontend repair among other things, to street kids interested in cars. Another section of their shop housed a complete body repair and paint shop. The club was very successful at getting kids off the street and into well-paying jobs. When Max hinted he would like to own a car with a lot of muscle, Jorge, eager to help a friend of his late brother, even though he had no recollection of Carlos ever writing home about a John Cato, assured him Los Gatos Frios could build exactly the car he wanted. And so, the planning had begun.