by Phil Lollar
The interior walls of the truck were lined with electronic equipment and manned by two technicians wearing blue jumpsuits and headphones. There was also a third man inside the truck, sandy-haired, wearing a suit and tie, sporting aviator-style glasses, and seated in a swivel chair, which he turned to face Blackgaard. He, too, wore headphones, which he removed as he turned. The two men stared at each other for a moment. Finally, Blackgaard said, “Well? Did you hear it all?”
The sandy-haired man nodded. “Yes, indeed,” he replied with a cultured British accent. “The wire worked perfectly. Pristine sound.” He pointed at Blackgaard’s chest. “You can take it off now, by the way.”
Blackgaard leaned his walking stick on the side of the truck, unbuttoned and removed his frock coat and waistcoat, loosened his ascot, and unbuttoned his shirt. A small, thin wired microphone was taped to his chest beneath the ascot. He slowly peeled back the tape, taking a few unwilling chest hairs with it, and began unthreading the microphone from his clothing. “So? Are you satisfied?”
Sandy-hair sniffed. “For the moment. You’ve certainly proven you have contacts. However, it remains to be seen whether they will contact you back.”
“Oh, rest assured, they will. What I’m offering is too valuable for them not to.” Blackgaard carefully coiled the wired microphone. “They will contact me; I will infiltrate them; and when I have gained their trust, I will hand them over to you in European Security.” To punctuate his point, he held out the wired microphone. Sandy-hair took it and handed it to one of the technicians, a big, blond, beefy character. He placed it in a drawer in his console.
Sandy-hair then leaned back in his chair. “And what’s in it for you, Doctor?”
Blackgaard shrugged as he rebuttoned his shirt and waistcoat. “Just the satisfaction of knowing I have made the world a safer, better place.”
“I see.”
Blackgaard adjusted his ascot, donned his frock coat, and rebuttoned it. “So, what do you say? Am I in?”
Sandy-hair swiveled away from him again. “Provisionally. There is a task we’d like you to perform first in order to—how do you Americans say it?—‘seal the deal’?”
“Task? What kind of task?”
“Oh, it’s something right up your alley. You see, we know all about your pilfering and black-marketing electronic devices.”
“And?”
“And there is one we would like you to pilfer for us.”
Blackgaard’s eyebrows rose. “Oh? What kind of device?”
“A laptop computer.” Sandy-hair began writing something on a pad of paper sitting on a small table in front of him. “Our contact in America will fill you in on all of the details.” He tore the top sheet from the pad on which he had been writing, swiveled back around, and handed it to Blackgaard. “Here is his information. Memorize it and destroy the paper.”
Blackgaard smirked. “How dramatic.”
“Do not take this lightly, Dr. Blackgaard!” Sandy-hair snapped. “Espionage is not a game, despite what you may have read in novels or seen in movies.”
Blackgaard nodded solemnly. “No, no, of course not. Forgive me.” He scanned the paper. “Mm . . . Department of Defense—interesting.” He studied it for a few moments more and then took a lighter from his pocket and lit the paper on fire. It fluttered to the floor and burned itself out. “Done. I shall leave for Washington tonight.”
“No, the two of you shall leave for Chicago tonight. That is where you shall make contact.”
Blackgaard blinked. “I’m sorry—‘the two of us’?”
Sandy-hair smiled. “You and Pinky.” He gestured toward the beefy technician, who removed his headphones and rose from his chair, towering over Blackgaard. Muscles bulged through his jumpsuit.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said with a thick, gravelly Austrian accent.
Blackgaard’s eyes widened. He was amazed the man could fit inside the truck.
“Pinky will assist you with the mission,” Sandy-hair continued. “He’s very resourceful and will provide you with whatever help you may need.”
And report back to you on my progress, no doubt, Blackgaard thought.
“The fewer people who know about this operation, the better,” Sandy-hair continued, “so there really is no need to keep any other muscle around, if you get my drift.”
Blackgaard smiled. “I do indeed.” He looked up at the large chiseled face in front of him. “And your name is really . . . ‘Pinky’?”
The mountainous man nodded. “Ya. Is dere a problem?”
Blackgaard held up his hands. “None at all.” He attempted to peer around Pinky at Sandy-hair. “I do have a question, though.”
“Yes?”
“Since you have Pinky here, why can’t he simply complete the mission on his own?”
Sandy-hair peered around Pinky at Blackgaard. “Two reasons: One, because he isn’t an American; and two, if he does it, how will we know if you can handle and complete a mission?”
Blackgaard chuckled. “Points taken. Very well then; come along, Pinky!” They moved to the door, slid it open, and stepped outside.
“Best of luck, Blackgaard!” Sandy-hair chimed.
Blackgaard bowed slightly. “Why, thank you . . . Filby.”
He slid the door shut with a bang.
Chapter Eight
TWO WEEKS LATER
Airports are amazing places. They are at once filled with joy and sorrow, excitement and boredom, satisfaction and frustration, anxiety and peace. They are mini-cities, bustling with commerce and activity, where almost every aspect and action of daily human existence occurs, including travel. It was in such a mini-city center of travel—O’Hare International Airport, to be precise—that Whit and Connie found themselves that weekend.
It was a trip for sightseeing and relaxation, and for Whit to meet with his people at Universal Press about his future missions plans, about which Connie knew nothing. It pained him that he couldn’t tell her the real reason for this trip or all his other trips to Chicago, or what he was actually doing at Universal Press.
One day, he hoped he could tell her and Eugene and everyone else in his life all about it. But he was cheered by her wide-eyed wonder at the size of O’Hare and hoped to make the trip as exciting for her as he could, which started happening almost as soon as they stepped off the plane. An airport security guard appeared seemingly out of nowhere, blocking their path. “Excuse me, sir.”
Whit stopped and took a step back. “Yes, Officer?”
“Step over to this table, please.” The guard gestured to his right.
Connie frowned and touched his arm. “Whit?”
He patted her hand, and they both walked to the table. Whit faced the guard and asked politely, “What’s going on?”
“Random security check,” the guard replied. “May I ask you what’s in that bag you’re carrying?”
“It’s my laptop computer.”
“Uh-huh,” the guard grunted. “Would you place the bag on the table and open it up, please?”
Connie squeezed her boss’s arm. “Whit, what’s—?”
Whit held up his hand. “Just relax, Connie. Of course, Officer.” He placed the bag on the table, unzipped and opened it, and displayed it to the guard.
The guard examined the computer in the bag but did not touch it.
“Would you turn it on so I can see something on the screen, please?”
“Sure.” Whit slid the computer and bag back in front of him, opened the laptop’s lid, and pushed the power button. The computer whirred and beeped, and after a few seconds, the main screen materialized.
Connie scowled at the guard. “What are you checking for—bombs? Drugs? Bootleg tapes of ‘The Praise Kids in Concert’?”
Whit shot her a reproving glance. “Connie.”
The guard studied the computer’s main screen. “This is your laptop? No one asked you to carry it for them?”
“That’s correct,” Whit replied. “I’ve had it by my side sin
ce leaving my house in Odyssey this morning.”
After another few seconds, the guard nodded. “All right, you can close it up now.” Whit powered down the computer and secured it in its case. The guard retrieved a small, official-looking pad of paper from his shirt pocket. “I’m going to give you a pass so you won’t be stopped again.” He tore off the top sheet of the pad and handed it to Whit. “There you go. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
Whit smiled. “That’s quite all right.”
Connie held up her handbag. “Don’t you want to look in my purse, too?”
“No, ma’am. What we’re looking for is too big to fit in your purse.”
“What are you looking for, Officer?” Whit asked.
“As I said, sir, it’s just a random security check.”
“On incoming passengers?” Whit questioned. “I don’t think so. What’s really going on here?”
The guard grimaced. “I probably shouldn’t . . .” He took a deep breath and continued. “Ah, you’ll hear it on the news anyway. We’re searching for a stolen computer—one that looks exactly like yours.”
Connie snorted. “All this hassle for a computer? What was it made of—gold?”
The guard held up his hands. “I really can’t say anything more. If you’ll excuse me . . .” He beat a hasty retreat.
Whit and Connie watched him go, and then Connie turned to Whit. “Do things like this always happen to you when you come on these trips?”
Whit grinned and shook his head. “Nope, this is the first time.”
Connie threw her hands in the air melodramatically. “Oh, great! Make me feel welcome, why don’tcha?” She moved on, and Whit chuckled and followed. But when he glanced back at the security guard, his smile faded, and an ominous feeling crept up his spine.
Something was going on, and it wasn’t something good.
Chapter Nine
After they collected their bags (Connie’s was so packed, Whit nearly busted a gut lifting it), they headed outside to find the van to their hotel. “It’s the world-famous Excelsior Hotel,” Whit said. “Service is their first priority—or whatever the ads say. They have a shuttle every fifteen minutes. Come on.”
Outside, they met with a cacophony of car exhaust, honking horns, slammed car doors and trunks, hundreds of people talking and milling about—and more police and security than Whit had ever seen there. “This is really something.”
“What?” asked Connie.
“All the police. Whatever was on that stolen computer must’ve been pretty important.” His gaze rested on a large, brightly colored van with the word “Excelsior” spelled out in classic calligraphy. “There’s our shuttle, Connie! Let’s hurry!” He quickened his pace, and Connie trotted after him.
Whit called, “Hold that van!” But his words were drowned out in the bustle of the loading zone. Whit slowed down as the van started to pull away from the curb. “Aw—we’re going to miss it!”
Suddenly, the shrillest whistle blast he’d ever heard sliced through the street noise, followed by his employee Connie screaming in her piercing tone, “Hey! Wait for us!”
The van screeched to a halt.
Whit smiled at her and shook his finger in his ear. “I knew I brought you along for a good reason!”
The van driver exited the vehicle and raced around it and up to them. “Sorry ’bout that, folks! Didn’t see ya! Now, you both just hop in the van and make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll put all your stuff in the back.” He grabbed their bags and pointed to Whit’s computer bag. “You wanna keep that with ya?”
Whit shook his head. “Not if there’s room back there. Just be careful with it.”
“‘Careful’ is my middle name!”
Whit handed over the computer bag, and he and Connie clambered into the van and took their seats.
After a few moments, the van shook as the driver closed the back doors, and then jolted again as he opened the driver’s side door, hopped in, and shut it again. He started the van, put it in gear, and pulled away from the curb deftly. “All three of ya going straight to the Excelsior?”
Connie frowned. “All three? There are only two of—” She looked behind her as she spoke and saw the third passenger—a short, stocky young man with long, greasy blond hair combed back and chopped off at the neck, and a pimply complexion, scrunched down in the farthest seat back. Connie blinked. “Oh, sorry! I didn’t see you hiding back there!”
The young man glared at her. “Hiding? Who’s hiding?”
Connie chuckled uneasily. “I’m kidding. Did you just come in to Chicago?”
He stayed scrunched down, peering out the van’s window, his eyes darting about. “Uh, yeah, something like that.”
“Guess you missed your flight after all, huh, kid?” the driver chimed in. “You goin’ back to the Excelsior?”
“Yeah. Fine. Anywhere.”
Connie smiled. “This is my first time.”
The young man shot her an irritated glance. “I’m thrilled for ya.” He looked back out the window. “Look, do ya mind? I’m not big on small talk.”
Connie’s smile faded. “Well, excuse me!” She turned back around, sank into her seat, and muttered, “Just tryin’ to be friendly. Nice town . . .”
Whit leaned forward. “Driver, do you know anything about why all the police are at the airport?”
The driver gazed back at Whit through his rearview mirror. “Just heard about it on the news. Turns out a courier for the Department of Defense had his car broken into last night. Whoever did it swiped some money, papers, and one of those laptop computer thingamajigs. Guess it has a bunch of top secrets on it.”
Whit stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Department of Defense, huh?”
The driver nodded. “Yeah. Courier stopped to go to the can, and whaddya know—he gets his car broke into. Anyway, the police are at the airports and stations trying to snag whoever in case they try to get outta town. Sounds like a lost cause to me. Probably some kid looking to steal the car stereo. I’ll bet he’s scared out of his—”
The young man suddenly blurted out, “Does the conversation come with the cost of the shuttle or what?”
The driver blinked and peered at him through the rearview. “The man asked me a question.”
The young man sat up. “Pull over, will ya?”
“What?”
“I changed my mind. I don’t wanna go back to the hotel. Just pull over and get my stuff outta the back!” He started scooting toward the passenger door.
The driver waved his hand. “All right, all right!” He maneuvered the van back toward the curb. Irritated drivers around them responded with honking horns and shouted curses. The van driver slowed to a stop, opened his door, hopped out of his seat, and made his way to the rear of the van.
Meanwhile, the young man stretched for the side passenger door handle but couldn’t quite reach it. Whit, who sat nearest to it, grabbed the handle and slid the door open for him. “Uh, I’m sorry if we were talking too much.”
The young man sidled to the door. “Nuthin’ personal. I just want out, that’s all. ’Scuse me . . .” He clambered out of the van, grabbed the door, and slammed it shut so hard, both Whit and Connie flinched.
“Whoa!” Connie exclaimed. “What’s his problem?”
Whit watched the young man disappear around the back of the van and shook his head. “No telling. He seemed awfully nervous.”
“Yeah . . . y’know, I think he really was hiding back there.”
“Mm . . .” Whit looked thoughtful for a moment and then shrugged. “Well, you meet all types at the airport.”
The driver closed the back doors, rushed to his place at the front, climbed in, put the van in gear, and skillfully merged back into airport traffic. “Sorry ’bout that, folks. Strange kid.”
Whit leaned forward again. “Did you bring him from the hotel?”
“Sort of. He met me out front. But when we got here, he didn’t get out. Kinda slumped in the seat and wat
ched as we drove ’round. Pretty suspicious, if ya ask me.”
“Didn’t he have a flight to catch?”
“I don’t think he knew what he was doing. Like I said: strange kid. Only had the two shoulder bags too. I was half-tempted to get a cop, but hey, I got a schedule to keep. Guess we’ll never know, huh?”
“I guess not.” Whit settled back into his seat, brow furrowed, a frown on his face.
They rode the rest of the way to the hotel in silence, the driver concentrating on traffic, Connie gazing out the window and drinking in the Chicago skyline, and Whit lost in thought.
Once they checked into the hotel and settled into their rooms, Whit called his Universal Press associate to check in and go over the agenda for the next couple of days. He had just hung up the phone when there was a sudden banging on his door, followed by Connie’s muffled voice from the hallway. “Whit! Whit!”
He traversed the room and pulled open the door. “What’s wrong, Connie?”
She rushed in, wild-eyed, face flushed. “Turn on your TV—quick!”
Whit crossed to the coffee table, grabbed the television remote, and clicked the “on” button. “All right, all right, but why? What’s so—?” The TV flickered to life.
Connie pointed at it. “The news! Look! Maybe they’ll show another picture! Turn up the sound!”
Whit pressed the volume button, and the TV news anchor’s voice faded in. “. . . police say their informant has indicated that the break-in of the unmarked Department of Defense car was intended as a petty theft and that the suspect had no idea of what he was stealing.”
A picture appeared on the screen. Connie pointed again. “There he is! See the picture?”
Whit’s eyes narrowed. “I see, I see!”
The news anchor continued. “The suspect, Greg Kelly, has been convicted of petty theft in two prior cases. Authorities are asking him, or anyone who has seen him, to call one of the numbers on the screen immediately. Because of the top-secret nature of the missing laptop computer, authorities fear Kelly’s life may be in danger . . .” Whit muted the volume.
Connie grabbed his arm. “That was him, right? I’m not seeing things?”