The Suitcase

by T V Scribner

  "I'm sorry," she sniffled, and then wiped her tears with the palms of her hands and the sleeves of her shirt and said, "I'm okay now. I think we have work to do."

  "You, sure?" he asked.

  "I am. Whatever grieving there is, I can do it later. I know our job here is important."

  Surprised by her answer and focus, he wondered under his breath, "Who is this person?"

  The coffee was ready, and she poured two cups and set them on the breakfast bar, "How would you like yours?" she said.

  "Black."

  “Same here,” and she continued silently processing the devastating information, as she put the groceries away, then grabbed a plate from the cupboard, and arranged four doughnuts, on it

  "You sure you want to do this?" he asked.

  "The doughnuts were a nice touch," was her answer, as she put the plate on the counter.

  Boone, puzzled at the control she had over her emotions, picked out a jelly doughnut. Both sat on stools by the counter, quietly sipping their coffee and eating doughnuts, until she brushed her hands together dusting off the crumbs, and said determinedly, "Let's get started!"

  CHAPTER 33

  Boone removed Dave Kaufman's briefcase, from the murder scene, before Ingles called 911 for him. Its contents included, a computer, hacking programs and surveillance information, which had to be protected from falling into the wrong hands—even those, of the police.

  "Thank goodness the perp didn't take Dave's briefcase!" Boone said, as he unpacked it, and set discs on the table, along with other papers.

  "Now, please bring me up to speed on everything you have, concerning the flash drive and its cryptic message. My men are waiting to see what information it contains. I assure you, this mission is serious. I have two teams in place, and another team who will work with me, and all are poised and ready to act, as soon as we know exactly what we're confronting."

  "Serious how?" she said. "You’ve divulged very little to me..." Her voice trailed off.

  "First things, first, you tell me what you have, and I'll fill in the gaps,” he said. “Now, what have you found on the flash drive...tell me everything."

  She began, "The night I was late to Casa Café for our meeting, I decided to see what the flash drive contained, because I thought perhaps there would be a clue, as to its owner. Since it was password protected, the thought crossed my mind that maybe it was linked to the murder." She was silent for a moment.

  "So, you did you open the drive.” He wanted to hurry her along with her story, but sensed he needed to be patient.

  "Well, I began to feel guilty, because after I found it, I didn't turn it over to the police." She looked at the coffee in her cup. "However, I’d already committed to discovering its owner, so I pressed on. Of course, hacking passwords don't easily stop me, because it’s part of my job description, so I grabbed a password cracking disc and inserted it into my computer." She paused and sighed.

  "And?" he urged her.

  “Like I told you before, I discovered this was no ordinary password. I had to use my most sophisticated software, which uses complicated algorithms, to do the job." She stood up and grabbed the coffee pot and asked Boone if he wanted more. He nodded, and she poured some for him, topping off her own cup. "I popped in the disc, let it run for a while, and finally it turned up a password."

  Boone was getting impatient with this story. He grabbed another donut then said, “Yes, and the password was chemodan.”

  "This is the weird part," she raised her head and looked directly into his eyes and continued, “that’s right—what I saw, was in a foreign language—Cyrillic, and Russians use that alphabet.”

  Boone wanted her to hurry past the part she’d already told him. “Yes, yes…you told me this, is that all?” he said. “I still wish you’d told me about this at dinner that evening!”

  She looked sheepish, then replied, “Part of it was because I felt from the beginning, you were holding something back from me…maybe you weren't being forthcoming about who you were, or something—so I didn't feel it was the right time. I decided to work on it more, before I came to you with any information. I only had the word chemodan, and I didn't want to look foolish."

  "Even the information, little though it was, would have been important," Boone said.

  "I'm so sorry," her eyes watered, and her lip quivered. "I know I should have turned the drive over to the police, no matter what, regardless of whether it would hold a clue, or not."

  She looked down at the computer, and avoided looking him in the eyes. She felt uncomfortable, so she stood up and walked to the coffee pot for another refill. Seeing her distress at having divulged her unprofessional handling of the flash drive, he softened a little.

  “Don't worry, it’s fine, because regardless, I know the flash drive will reveal the rest of the puzzle pieces."

  He watched her return slowly to her chair, then added, "I'm sorry I wasn't more forthcoming about my identity and connection to this case, but with all we've gone through, I think it's time to let you, into the loop."

  He waited for her reaction. This sudden change of direction surprised her.

  "You mean I was right? You really aren't who you say you are!" She had an incredulous tone in her voice as she realized her sixth sense, was on target, adding, "So, probably Deedrick Boone isn't even your real name!"

  For a moment, all sorts of betrayals scrolled through her head leaving her confused, angry and somehow relieved. Surprised, Boone could see her facial expressions change, as thoughts flickered through her eyes, revealing themselves on her face, like an old-time silent movie, displaying a kaleidoscope of expressions.

  "Let me explain."

  "I'm all ears!" she said, struggling to get her emotions under control.

  Giving her a kindly smile, Boone told her of his connection to Washington, D.C., the FBI and CIA, and the reason he'd been sent to Pinecrest.

  She was stupefied by the high-level list of acronyms, and listened with rapt attention for the next five minutes, as he admitted his affiliation with an FBI Counter Terrorist Special Forces Unit, and his assignment to head up three tactical groups.

  With this statement, her eyebrows rose in surprise, "This sounds incredulous, is this for real?" and realizing she was still standing, she sat down in her chair and folded her hands in her lap, as she listened to him recount the facts about the conversation of the contact, Mr. Ohm, with an undercover FBI agent in the Minneapolis bureau, four months ago.

  "How did that happen?" She was dumbfounded.

  "The FBI has a watch list, and undercover agents get tips all the time. A tip was received from a man of Russian descent, who was here in the US, on a student visa. He wanted to sell some crucial information, on the black market. He described it as critical, and wanted to sell to an entity for as much money as possible. "

  "This is just like out of a spy movie!”

  “I suppose it seems like that, but the information supposedly involved a weapon of mass destruction, which of course, might affect our national security, and possibly that of other countries. Information like this gets immediate attention from Washington, and needs to be taken seriously."

  "I'm sorry, but this doesn't seem real!"

  Now it was Boone's turn to stand up and refill his coffee cup. Taking a sip, he set it on the breakfast bar and began to pace, "I can understand how all this must sound, but it's true! I was selected to set up a meeting with him, as soon as he contacted me."

  "Oh, my gosh! That sounds dangerous."

  "This is why I couldn't confide in you, because the bureau was unable to discern his identity at the time, so I waited several months for him, to make contact. The information our Minneapolis Bureau was able to glean, was credible enough by this time, for the Washington Bureau to take action, and I was sent straight to Pinecrest."

  Ingles felt overwhelmed, “So, did you make contact?"

  He continued, ”I was told the information was linked to the Russian Mafia, because there'd
been a steady flow of Russian's, over the last two years, to areas in Minnesota, and to Crow Wing County, specifically. So with a hint of international terrorism, our government needed to move quickly, and this is why I'm here. And no, I never made contact."

  "So, what is your real name?" she said, interrupting his story.

  "Are you listening to what I'm explaining to you, or are you stuck on the name thing?" He could tell by her expression—it was the name-thing, and said, "As far as anyone here is concerned, Deedrick Boone is my real name. I have other aliases because of my job, and my real name is never used—it's for my safety, and the safety of others."

  "Okay, okay,” she said, “I’ll admit, I'm disappointed with the answer, but for the time being, I'll let it go.” She smiled and settled down again as he clarified the importance of their findings.

  He stopped pacing, put his hands flat on the table leaning over them, and told her, "I believe I was unable to meet with the informant, because..."

  "Wait,” she interrupted, as her eyes registered the answer, “…the informant was Gregore Kamorov, wasn't it?"

  Boone nodded, "Yes, I believe Kamorov is—was—the informant. He called himself Mr. Ohm, and he was murdered before I could ever talk or meet with him."

  "I knew it!" she said, triumphantly!

  Boone took his hands off the table and sat on a stool by the counter, with his coffee. "Yes, seems logical, but regardless, whatever is going on, it appears to be a very serious matter!”

  "Oh, my gosh," she said, "it makes total sense."

  "Furthermore," he continued, "if the information from this flash drive pans out, it will lend credence to my theory. Now it seems obvious, why the flash drive was an object of so much interest, that people were willing to kill for it…and it explains the attacks on you. Something is on the flash drive, which these people desperately want, so it's imperative, for us to begin working right now, to ascertain what kind of information it contains."

  "Thanks for the clarification," Paisley said, amazed at these revelations.

  "Well, let's get busy, it's up to us, to save the world!" Boone quipped.

  This caught her attention. "How can you sound so cavalier? You just scared me to death with talk of an international plot, and now you're joking about it?" Her indignation was palpable.

  "Not really," he said. "We've got important work to do, and I was just trying to lighten things up a little."

  Her only response was, "Dahhh!" Then she cracked a slight smile and said, "Okay, let's do it!"

  With decryption software at her fingertips, Paisley sat down at the computer and slid a disc into the DVD drive, then began entering commands. Boone watched, as the computer displayed lines of gibberish on the screen, which made no sense to him. She continued to key in codes, and pull up various screens, while letters, digits and graphs appeared and disappeared on the monitor.

  Ten minutes later, working with the files as they scrolled down the screen, she set specific parameters, then sat back, "Now we wait for the software to do its work."

  Boone picked up their coffee cups, went to the sink to dump out the dregs, then brewed a fresh pot of coffee. When it was ready, he poured them both another cup. Returning to the table, he set the cups down, far enough away from any possibility of being accidentally spilled, on the computer or the papers.

  She grabbed her cup, took a sip and turning to Boone asked, "Do you have access to anyone who speaks Russian?"

  "I do,” he said, rocking back on the two back legs of his chair.

  "Good," she said, “because it will save a lot of time. Right now, what I’ve seen so far, looks like it's all in Russian, just like the password. Once we have the rest of the files from Kamorov's flash drive and computer decrypted and printed out, then we can send a copy to your interpreter, for translation into English."

  “Sure, not a problem,” he said.

  "I'm presuming your translator is yet, another person, in your cadre of specialists, whom you have, at your fingertips," she chided.

  Bong, bong, bong! The clock on the fireplace mantel began to chime, and they both jumped. They were still on edge from their harrowing experiences of the past several days. The sudden, unexpected chiming of the clock, served to illustrate the point.

  Relaxing again, Boone said quietly, "I speak fluent Russian, so I will be the one to translate it."

  "You?" She turned and looked at him, mouth agape!

  "Another piece of information I neglected to mention, I speak fluent Russian, German, Pashto and Arabic."

  "Wow! I’m speechless!”

  Boone looked at the clock then excused himself, "I have to make another call, Ingles," and he stepped outside, to contact Riley on his SAT phone, while Paisley continued monitoring the computer.

  "Riley, this is Boone again. Listen, we're almost finished with the decryption. I'll call the minute we know what we're dealing with, but in the meantime, it's a ‘go’ for our plan...set things in motion, now!"

  Boone re-entered the bungalow with a cell phone.

  "Where did that come from?"

  "I have several special cell phones in different go-bags, in case the one I'm using has a ‘mishap’. They're burner phones—just use and toss. If I can't toss it in time and it’s confiscated, the phones are coded, so if anyone tries to use them, all its information is automatically deleted—kind of like Mr. Phelps, from the old TV show, Mission Impossible.”

  "What?" Ingles seemed confused.

  "Should you choose to accept this mission...blah, blah, blah...then this message will self-destruct..." he said.

  She just shook her head, "Oh. This covert world of yours, is new to me, however, I do find it exciting," she grinned.

  While they waited for results, Paisley decided to avail herself of the opportunity to find out whatever she could about the Russian Mafia in the Lakes Area. She logged onto Google with Boone's computer, typed in "Russians in the Brainerd Lakes,” and perused the topics presented by the search engine.

  There were a few Brainerd Lakes references, in regard to hotels, and a Heartland Symphony Orchestra concert series—Russian Masters. Scrolling further, a Russian Vodka Mirror Sign for $35.00 could be found on Craig's List, etc. Before she tried a different search topic, something caught her eye, and there it was! It Immediately grabbed her attention The title read, "When the Cold War Paid a Visit to Brainerd, Minnesota”, by a local reporter, dated Jan., 2012.

  CHAPTER 34

  Paisley eagerly read several reports, including some congressional records, which suggested the KGB, hid weapon cashes, near Brainerd, Minnesota, and in several other location in the US, during the Cold War. It was even mentioned, that the Soviets had given these caches the code names, of ‘Aquarium I’ and ‘Aquarium II’.

  Regardless of the tone of the articles, it spurred Paisley to perform more specific searches. As the first article printed, she handed it to Boone to peruse, while she entered several more searches, which unearthed other articles, more specific in nature and substantially, more sobering in their content. These were also printed, and tossed over to Boone.

  "What the heck!" There was surprise in his voice, "If this is what I think it is, then we're definitely going down the right road!" After giving a low whistle, he said, “This positively merits calling out the big boys!"

  "I'm finding more articles...I'll print them out, and we can read them later, but for the moment, suffice it to say, I can give you the abridged version. Here goes, it seems some Russians, may have discovered the probable location of one of these caches, which, might contain a suitcase bomb, or other ordinates, with which to make some sort of weapon of mass destruction, aka, a WMD!"

  “It’s certainly all coming together!" Boone said.

  Pausing a moment to look at him, she continued, “And, I think, these Russians are coming down the home stretch—to retrieve it!"

  "Interesting…I totally agree!”

  "Well," she continued anyway, despite his seemingly lack-luster answer, "I gues
s you and I, and your platoons, or whatever, must beat them to the punch! Sounds like the making of some super-hero movie, right?"

  "I think..." Boone started to say, but was interrupted.

  "So, it's Boone—the Camouflage Man—and his band of side-kicks, who save the world from the evil Russians from the Soviet Union! Or, is it just called Russia now? I forget," she laughed.

  Looking at her with a smirk on his face, he said, "Are you through?"

  "Oops! I'm sorry? I’m…just over-tired and overwhelmed by this thought, and when I can't deal with reality, I fall back on humor—wrong time?" she asked, with a sheepish look on her face, “Too soon?”

  He gave her another kindly smile. "I understand. I'm used to being in dire situations and forget this must be a lot for a detective, new to the PPD, to comprehend. However, I thought of another possibility."

  "Like what?" She stood up and picked another donut, out of the box, since the ones Boone had put on the plate were gone.

  "Based on the shady character of Mr. Zolotov and his group, this may not be for national reasons. I think they’re planning to put it on the black-market, for some staggering price, to sell to other not-so-integrity-oriented nations or terrorist groups!"

  "I never considered that, but you’re probably right!"

  "Because,” he continued, "if a lawless terrorist group were to obtain this weapon, it would be the worst-case scenario. These bad actors, would pay gobs of money to get their hands on a suitcase bomb—or even its fissile nuclear material!"

  Paisley, had taken umbrage, with Boone’s condescending statement, “…A lot for a new detective in the PPD, to comprehend…” But before she could speak, the computer hummed to a stop…the decryption complete.

  The silence felt ominous, and both were somber for an exiguous moment, until Paisley resumed downloading information about suitcase bombs from various websites, while Boone sat passively reading the printouts handed to him. After several minutes, the information appeared on the monitor, in the form of discernible, word-groupings.