by Gordon Ryan
Mildred enjoyed her semi-retirement, taking only occasional courier assignments, which allowed her more time with her long-suffering husband, their four daughters, and many grandchildren. Her family never knew the extent of Mildred’s secret life and dismissed her grisly treasures, because of their seemingly ordinariness, as mementos of their wife/mother’s travels abroad as a State Department researcher. Despite her secret career, Mildred was a devoted wife, mother, and grandmother. Upon her retirement as a State Department researcher, Mildred and her family had returned to the rich black dirt of her beloved Red River of the North valley and established a life of rural stability. Her husband farmed sunflower or sorghum wheat or corn or sugar beet, whatever was profitable. Mildred ran a Scandinavian hobby shop in Crookston. Mildred’s shop was a popular place in Crookston, particularly during the long, cold Minnesota winter.
The debriefing room was, in actuality, a small operating room. After examining the superficial wounds to her left hand and neck, the duty nurse asked Mildred to put on a hospital gown and to lie on the operating table. The surgeon had already scrubbed and was standing beside the table. In a corner, two armed Marines in battle fatigues stood quietly with an iron container, its top open.
Exposing Mildred’s remarkably well developed and still physically firm body, especially given her outwardly older appearance, the board-certified plastic surgeon made a small incision directly below Mildred’s left armpit. With a surgical nurse helping with the spreaders, the surgeon retrieved a small plastic and gold cylinder from the subcutaneous layer of Mildred’s skin using a retractor that fully enclosed the small thin cylinder. The surgeon then placed the retractor containing the cylinder gently into a lead-lined cylinder, closed the cover of the lead lined container, and handed the cylinder to a Marine Lieutenant, who was dressed in a green surgical gown, as was everyone in the operating room except the two guards.
The Lieutenant placed the cylinder into the lock box held by the Marine guards, evacuated the container with a portable pump, and injected nitrogen gas into the apparatus. The surgeon then opened a plastic bag and retrieved a small plastic and gold cylinder, which he placed into the open wound below Mildred’s left armpit. He closed the wound, taking great care to close tissue layer by layer to minimize any scarring of Mildred’s skin. When completed, the scar over the cylinder would be barely noticeable.
The discarded plastic bag lay in a stainless steel bowl. On the plastic bag in typically bureaucratic language was printed the message: MILSPEC 1993-35.77, Recording Chip — DOD/CSAC Classified — Z Level — Cryptographic.
The MILSPEC 1993-35.77 Recording Chip was a remarkable technological breakthrough. Small enough to be inserted subcutaneously into a courier’s body, the chip was programmable through use of digitized magnetic induction devices. Once programmed, the chip could not be altered by conventional devices. For example, magnetic detection security gates at airport security stations could not alter the message implanted in the cylinder. The chip had to be physically removed to access or change the magnetically induced message.
If removed by someone other than a CSAC surgeon using the proper extraction tool, the chip would be rendered useless. The chip was used only for the most secret information. The existence of the recording chip was one of CSAC’s most closely guarded secrets.
In Mildred’s case, the information had been encoded using an induction magnetizer at the CSAC field office located at the Grand Forks Air Force Base near Grand Forks, North Dakota. The basic data had been flown by military personnel from Watch Station Four located somewhere in Lake Superior. Since the nearest encoding devices were located at Grand Forks, the data had been flown there instead of directly to Washington.
Mildred was encoded after checking into the CSAC office at the air base. Data encoding did not require intrusive surgery. A digital transmitter was placed next to the site of the cylinder and after a brief moment, the message was recorded. Mildred was then handed tickets to Minneapolis and New York and from there to Washington. The circuitous route was to minimize any interference with the courier, who, as far as the world was concerned, was merely on a shopping trip for her Scandinavian hobby shop.
After the superficial wounds on her left hand and neck were treated and Mildred had dressed, she went down to the security office where George Smith had been attempting to identify Mildred’s attacker.
1800 Hours: Thursday, June 10, 1993: George Smith’s Office, Washington, D.C.
George Smith, an ex-FBI special agent, was the civilian chief of security at CSAC. His law enforcement demeanor and ten years experience as a special agent of the FBI was especially useful in his present job. Under cover as a security consultant to the State Department, Smith was known to all federal agencies and to many state criminology departments as well.
Smith was a thin, dapper man. He wore navy blue suits year round, starched white shirts, red and black striped ties, and heavy, black, plain-toed shoes. Smith was fond of wearing the black-rimmed glasses made famous by Barry Goldwater, the Republican candidate for President of the United States in 1964. His dark hair was always cut in a short but presentable fashion. In a way he looked like a younger version of the singer Roy Orbison, a comparison he secretly enjoyed. Despite that small vanity, Smith was a serious person not given to humor or idle gossip.
Smith’s office was strictly utilitarian, middle management, federal agency issue. The tan metal desk was complemented by russet leatherette and metal chairs. Smith kept few personal items in his office, preferring to maintain a respectful distance between his office and home lives. His office had a green chalkboard, upon which Smith did some of his best thinking. The security files in his office were armed with electronic locks, set to signal security if any unauthorized attempt were made to open them. You got the combination right the first time or large silent men dressed in black suits, with no sense of humor, immediately showed up at your door.
A half dead plant sat forlornly on the top of the security cabinet. Try as he might, Smith was no gardener. Smith was on the telephone when Mildred entered his office.
“Well, okay. If you find out anything, please let me know.” He returned the handset to its cradle and turned to Mildred.
“That was a friend of mine in the Federal Aviation Agency’s airport security office. Boy, do they hate stiffs turning up in airports. Hurts the image that airports are antiseptic, user friendly places. I call him every so often to kibitz. Used that today, pretending that I hadn’t heard a thing.”
“Any idea who the attacker might be?” Mildred said.
“So far, the only thing we have is the body of an unnamed, thirtyish, black-haired, blue-eyed, Caucasian female. The National Airport Police think she may have been the victim of an attempted rape and robbery. The corpse had no identification or money. When the airport police showed her photograph around, some shuttle flight attendant remembered seeing her on a flight from La Guardia.
“Even so, there were no boarding passes, purses, or other identifying items. This is why the police think that robbery may have been the motive. The labels on her clothes were all general brand names. We will have little to go on. We can’t get directly involved without revealing that one of our agents was the killer. Consequently, we’re going to have to rely on normal channels.
“At least you had the good sense to neutralize her on FAA regulated property. The FBI will eventually get some information. Between them and my friend at the FAA, we should be able to get something. In addition, our DIA agents will be able to get something and may already have. The gases in the pellet are designed to disintegrate completely and be absorbed in the dying body so that any residual concentration is minimal.
“Any autopsy they perform on your friend will conclude that she died of a puncture wound to her abdomen area, followed by cardiac arrest. The medical examiner will likely conclude the deflated lungs were due to the physical attack. Luckily, the explosion was so fast that the tissue damage can be just as easily interpreted as being ext
ernally caused. There will be no suspicion that your friend’s death was caused by internal trauma. I guess it’s another scalp for your belt, Mildred.”
“I’m getting too old for scalps. That’s why I downgraded to Level Two. This was supposed to be a milk run. Do we have any idea what this person was up to?”
“Can’t be sure until we get some form of positive identification. I understand that the Arlington County medical examiner sent your friend’s prints to the national crime center in Atlanta, Georgia. At least we’ll be able to see if we’ve met her before. I have a feeling that the prints will come up negative. The garrote was homemade. No sophistication whatsoever.”
“Could it be I was made?” said Mildred.
“The boys don’t think so, given the speed in which the courier assignment was made. On the other hand, if this person made you at the airport and decided to bag a big one on the spur of the moment, that would explain the homemade garrote.”
“Hate to disagree, George. There’s no way she could have had access to wires and wood at the airport.”
“We’ll find out in due course, Mildred. Meanwhile, go get some rest. Do you want some backup on your trip home?”
“No, George. Even retired Level Ones like to travel alone. I’m going down to the laboratory, my knitting needle needs a refill,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Oh, by the way. Can I have the garrote back?”
“Sure,” said Smith, hesitantly. He didn’t have to ask why because he knew and he understood. It was painful to think that his old friend Mildred still needed to keep such things.
1993: Somewhere in Minnesota
2100 Hours: Thursday, June 10, 1993: Outside of Mankato, Minnesota
“Tell us where the message is and you can go,” said Tim Walsh, his voice calm and even.
“I keep telling you, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the disheveled man tied to a metal chair in the kitchen, his hands cinched tightly behind his back, his eyes blindfolded. “I don’t know what you want.”
“Don’t lie to us,” said Walsh. His pale blue eyes stared impassively at the blindfolded and bound prisoner. His voice remained flat. “We know you’re a special courier and we want the message. It is vital to my leaders.”
“Look, I really don’t know who you are or what you want. What are you talking about? I’m just a distributor for a Seattle, Washington, automotive specialty parts manufacturer. What do you want from me? What? What in God’s name have I ever done to you?”
Ignoring the pleas of the blindfolded man, Walsh turned to the third man in the room. “Did you find anything in his papers or briefcase?”
“No, his identification cards all say his name is Richard Winslow, a resident of Seattle, Washington.”
“Mr. Winslow, it seems we aren’t getting anywhere quick. We know who you are and what you are carrying. You claim that you’re an auto parts dealer — that is a lie. All we want from you is the truth.” Walsh bent over the captive, speaking ever so softly.
The blindfolded man did not reply.
“We don’t seem to be coming to agreement, do we?” said Walsh rhetorically, his unblinking pale blue eyes focused on his blindfolded captive. “Why won’t you talk? We take the information and you go on your way. We don’t want to hurt you. All we want is the information that you are carrying.”
Walsh’s eyes narrowed as he straightened up.
“Look, I’m losing my patience. What do I have to do to show you I mean business?” Walsh slammed his fist into Winslow’s chest. Richard Winslow bent forward in pain as far as his restraints would allow. He did not cry out.
Breathless, Winslow coughed. His eyes stung from the rivulets of sweat that poured from his brow and soaked through his blindfold. “You guys have the wrong person. I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Believe me. Please believe me.”
The third man, Bill Sorenson, looked through Winslow’s wallet and picked out a snapshot of a young blond woman in her late twenties with two small children. The color photograph, obviously taken in a studio, seemed to be of recent vintage given the clothes the subjects were wearing.
“Lovely family, Mr. Winslow,” said Sorenson. “Just help us and you can go home to them soon.”
“Look, you’ve got the wrong guy. I haven’t done anything to you. Look, if it’s money you want, I don’t have much, but what I have you can have — just let me go.”
“Don’t toy with us, Winslow,” said Walsh. “We know you’re with CSAC and that you have information critical to us. We want it. What is so damn important about that information that you’re willing to die for it?”
“Die? Look, I would tell you everything you want, but I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. What the hell is this Seasack? I’ve never heard of it. All I know is that I was answering a message at the Minneapolis airport when I passed out. Somebody grabbed my arms. The next thing I know, I’m tied to this chair. I’m blindfolded, and you two are asking me crazy things. Give me a break.”
“Mr. Winslow, let’s review the facts. First, you’re a special courier carrying a message of the highest secrecy. Second, we know that you boarded Northwest Flight 8 at SeaTac Airport in Seattle at 11:40 a.m. destined for Minneapolis/St. Paul Airport, where you were supposed to board Northwest Flight 361 for Washington National Airport at 6:05 p.m. It was almost five o’clock before we were able to catch up with you at the airport. Finally, the message that you’re carrying is of vital importance to my leaders.”
Winslow vigorously shook his head in denial and in doing so his blindfold came undone, falling to his lap in a loose pile of cloth. Blinking from the light in the room, Winslow was startled to look into the pale blue eyes of his tormentor.
“Fool.” Walsh abruptly turned to Sorenson with a cold, violent stare. “I told you to tie that blindfold firmly.”
Sorenson stood silently. Walsh was his commander; he knew that protesting would have little use.
There was little more that could be done. A thorough search of Winslow’s clothing and briefcase had revealed nothing to suggest that Winslow was anything but what he said he was. While Winslow was unconscious, Sorenson had the abominable job of conducting a complete body and cavity search of Winslow. The search had revealed nothing more than the body of a normal middle-aged Caucasian male with the usual bumps, bruises and scars one normally accumulates after more than forty years on this Earth.
Maybe they had taken the wrong guy, Walsh thought.
Another thought entered Walsh’s mind.
Maybe this was a trap. By allowing him and Sorenson to take this agent, the Americans might already be on their tracks. After all, the enemy could have set up the leader. Maybe he was already under custody — maybe even dead.
In retrospect, Walsh decided that the operation had gone far too smoothly. This had to be a trap.
Walsh turned to Winslow. “So the enemy has made us, have they?”
“Look, buddy, I really don’t know you or anything. Please let me go.” Winslow strained at his bindings to no avail.
Walsh walked across the room, entered the adjacent bedroom, and went directly to a dresser. He slowly drew on a pair of leather driving gloves. From the top left drawer Walsh picked up a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver. He then loaded six hollow point shells into the weapon.
Seeing what Walsh was doing, Sorenson took him by his arm and whispered, “Wait a minute. We’re supposed to question this guy, not kill him.”
“He knows too much. Besides, this is a trap. We’ve got to cut our losses. Know your place! I’m making this decision; you have no basis to question my judgment. Just do your job.”
Sorenson knew that Walsh was right. He could not question his leader; he had to do his job. His throat felt parched as he watched Walsh walk out of the bedroom.
Walsh walked into the room in which Winslow was tied to the chair and said, “Mr. Winslow, I’m afraid that you have become a burden.”
Winslow looked up into the pal
e blue eyes that showed no emotion.
“I’m not who you want. I don’t know what you want. Please let me go, I’ve got a family, really.”
With studied indifference, Walsh placed the muzzle of the revolver to Winslow’s left temple. Winslow, tears forming in his eyes, made one final plea.
“Why are you doing this to me? Why?”
Walsh gently squeezed the trigger sending a .357 Magnum hollow point slug racing down the barrel of his revolver. The bullet crashed into Richard Winslow’s left temple, jerking his head rightward — a look of utter surprise on his face. The shock of the bullet ripping into Winslow’s temple caused intense pain. Each synapse screamed terribly as it went through its death throes. The pain — the utter pain, the likes of which Winslow had never known and would never know again. Winslow looked as if he was about to say something, the only sound emitting from the screaming hole that was his mouth being, “MAAAAAA!”
As the bullet shattered Richard Winslow’s skull and penetrated the subdural membrane of his brain, he briefly experienced an intense bright light. This was followed immediately by a flood of red as the blood vessels in the retina of his eyes exploded from the pressure. As the bullet, now deformed by its collision with Winslow’s skull, crashed into Winslow’s left frontal lobe, the instant flash of red was replaced by blackness. Richard Winslow no longer existed.
The bullet continued its deadly course, tearing a wide path through the grayish white tissue of Winslow’s brain and finally blowing a large portion of the right frontal portion of his skull and facial skin away from his head. Blood, grayish white brain tissue and small shards of what was formerly Richard Winslow’s skull blasted out of the cavity that used to be his face, leaving the characteristic exit crater, spraying the floor and the adjacent wall in a grotesque, red, white and gray Jackson Pollock design, a brilliant abstraction of Navajo sand art.