Jacobson laughed. “You and Janos work fast. Remember, the two in the Navigator are there to watch. If you need them, be sure to call.”
Kiev, mid-morning. Yuri Smirnov arrived late, wheeled to the elevator by the building guard. He closed his office door, wheeled himself behind his desk, and sat in the sun.
Last night’s call from Janos Nagy had been on his supposedly secure cell phone. Nagy provided nothing and he’d wanted to call his US contact, but because of his drinking and the questionable cell, he’d waited. He turned from the window, opened his right hand desk drawer, and removed the SBU encrypted phone. He looked at his watch; US time would be middle of the night, or very early morning.
After several rings a sigh came from the phone.
He spoke Russian. “I’m sorry to have awakened you, darling. All parties are in the area of interest. Soon, one of us will be receiving information along with the key. Do you understand?”
A woman, tired from having been awakened, replied in Russian. “I understand.”
Hearing her voice brought back fond memories of their lovemaking long ago when he was in better health.
Mariya and Niki arrived at camp before dawn with coffee and breakfast sandwiches in noisy paper wrappers. Janos turned on the lights. “I thought American motels had free breakfast.”
“Too early,” said Niki. “We picked up drive-through last night and microwaved it this morning.”
The older Russian spoke from the back. “No baked goods?”
“Did they complain during the night?” asked Mariya.
Janos stood and spoke loudly. “Earlier when I called my friend Smirnov at the Ukrainian SBU the young one bellowed.”
To this, the younger Russian looked confused, and Janos continued.
“Smirnov simply laughed. And of course the SBU has no record of them in any of the aliases we found in their possession.”
As agreed, both Lazlo and Janos watched the Russians carefully, looking for reactions. They’d moved them about earlier. There were no reactions and Janos shook his head.
“Soon we’ll leave for our meeting at the marina with Rose Buckles’ niece.” Lazlo paused, both he and Janos studying the Russians. Again, no reaction.
Janos said, “We’ll eat first, then Russian roulette before the sun comes up.”
The older Russian smiled, the younger looked worried.
No reaction to the names Yuri Smirnov or Rose Buckles. Yet reactions to the mention of Russian roulette. The Russians ate voraciously as if it were their last meal.
Guzzo stood at his motel room window, curtains open, lights out. His personal and equipment bags on the bed. The room faced west, the beginnings of sunrise shining on distant boulders. The 350, drilling equipment trucks, and the white Navigator layered in dew in the parking lot. He left his bags, put out the do not disturb sign, and headed down the hallway where he could smell the motel’s free breakfast.
He paused in the lobby holding a morning newspaper studying others in the breakfast room. Drilling crew workers finishing up. Three elderly couples and a family with three children alternately grazed the breakfast bar. A little girl reminded Guzzo of his girls. He imagined them at the breakfast table with Vera, felt a twinge of homesickness.
A young man and woman arrived. Both dressed casually, the woman African American, the man Caucasian. Everyone in the breakfast room seemed comfortable with this except the elderly couples, who stared at CNN on the wall-mounted television more than before.
After the elderly couples finished and were gone, the young man glanced at Guzzo while waiting for the toaster. Guzzo made certain his long sleeve shirt covered his tattoo and put down the newspaper. He noticed the young man, wearing short sleeves, had a sunburned right arm.
After getting a cup of coffee, Guzzo stood perusing the fare. The African American woman was behind him at a table eating yogurt and a banana. The young man filled a cup with orange juice, placed it on the table, and went back to waiting for the toaster.
“Motel toasters are the slowest in the world,” said Guzzo.
“You travel a lot?” asked the young man.
“A requirement of the service,” said Guzzo, purposely smiling.
A hesitation before the young man smiled back. The toaster popped. “Finally.”
“Next time try the waffle maker,” said Guzzo. “It’s faster.”
Guzzo took bagel and coffee back to his room and stood eating at the window. When the man and woman walked to their Navigator, he hoisted his bags, hurried down the hall, and waited at the back exit until the Navigator was gone. The sun, flame-colored on the western hills, reminded him of the two toasted in the Dodge Charger on the other side of the gorge.
The Lucerne Valley Marina store was packed with fishermen, fisherwomen, and racks of gear. As promised by Etta Pratt, Clancy Vargo’s hair was very red and very long. Niki introduced herself with a brief mention of having questions about Rose Buckles. Clancy asked another woman behind the counter to cover for her. Lazlo, Janos, and Mariya, feigning interest in colorful fishing lures, followed when Niki motioned to them.
Clancy was slender and perhaps 50. Her red hair, when she turned, down to her waist in an intricate braid. They sat at a long table in a lunchroom/storeroom. After introductions, Niki filled Clancy in on basics—Niki’s father having been at the Manila CCC camp in 1939, Doctor Marta Voronko’s grandfather also having been there, the deaths of Niki’s father, Doctor Marta’s father and grandfather, Doctor Marta, and Sonia. Niki summarized Lazlo’s investigation into the deaths of George Minkus in Chicago, Buddy Minkus on his motorcycle in Colorado, and the fact Buddy’s grandson, Cory Minkus, went missing after contact with Lazlo, his last known whereabouts Vernal, Utah.
A stocky woman with short hair interrupted saying the store was busy. When Clancy said this had to do with research into Rose Buckles’ death, the stocky woman waved her hand, said she’d get someone from the dock to help, and told Clancy to take her time. After the visit from the stocky woman, whose eye contact indicated she might be the partner Etta Pratt mentioned, Clancy said, “Sue will handle the store. Let’s talk.”
“I admire your hair,” said Mariya.
“Thanks,” said Clancy. “I admire your accent.”
“Etta Pratt said your parents were dead,” said Lazlo. “I’m sorry.”
“Heavy smokers and drinkers. The murder had its effect. Mom looked up to Rose.”
“Did your mother speak of the Manila camp or the CCC boys?” asked Niki.
“The way Rose died was Mom’s obsession,” said Clancy. “Growing up I’d hear stories not only of what troublemakers CCC boys could be, but stories of Lincoln Highway workers, railroad workers, truck drivers, ranch hands, Indians off reservation, even ghosts and monsters.”
“Do you mind if I say something?” asked Janos.
“I don’t mind.”
“You’ve been doing research concerning your aunt’s death for some time. I wondered where you’re at in your research regarding the nearby CCC camp.”
“There was a Green River town camp,” said Clancy. “Enrollees and staff there cleared because of a chess tournament with townsfolk. You’re speaking of the Manila Camp. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t far from here, down the road south of Manila where the Uinta Mountains begin. The 1965 Sheep Creek flood washed all traces of the camp away. The only thing left of their work, besides the road to Vernal through the mountain, is the Ute Mountain Fire Lookout Tower. One thing I’ve been looking into lately is information that led me to a man in a nursing home in Vernal. He was a camp LEM—Local Experienced Man. He’s in his nineties and as far as I know the only one left from around here. Sue and I spoke with him a few weeks back. He remembered Rose’s murder, but there was something else he said that might help. He said there was a big ruckus at the camp a week or so after R
ose was found. Didn’t say what exactly, just some kind of ruckus nobody seemed to care about. By the way—Janos is it?”
“Yes.”
“It’s your accent and Mariya’s accent. A couple days ago when I was off, Sue mentioned two men with accents here asking questions. They said they’d be back, but so far nothing.”
After explaining the situation as best they could in a way that would not unnecessarily upset Clancy, she agreed to have her partner go out to the Class C to look in at the Russians. It took longer than expected. After peeking inside, Sue wasn’t sure, saying one was younger and one was a bigger guy.
“Can you take the tape off their mouths?”
Janos held an automatic on them, telling them to stare at his trigger finger. One after the other, Lazlo removed the tape, had them speak, then replaced the tape. The Russians looked forward and to the side, but always at Janos’ finger tight on the trigger of the automatic. Outside Sue apologized. “I’m sorry, I’d like to say yes. The accents are similar, but they’re not the two who questioned me. They drove a black Suburban like the Secret Service.”
In the parking lot, after getting details about the old man at the nursing home in Vernal, Janos and Lazlo told Clancy and Sue there might be more activity in the area because they weren’t the only ones interested, especially if Sue was correct about another pair of men. They suggested Clancy and Sue call local authorities. Both agreed, saying no problem because the sheriff kept his boat at the marina. Also, they had a pistol and shotgun hidden behind the counter.
“Can I ask one more question?” said Niki.
“Sure,” said Clancy.
“What’s the derivation of your name?
“My dad was Irish. It was Mom’s idea because of her sister Rose. Clancy’s Irish for redheaded warrior.”
Sue hugged Clancy. “That’s my girl.”
“One other thing,” said Clancy. “Rose’s father was supposedly from somewhere in Eastern Europe. Family called him a redheaded Gypsy ghost because he disappeared before Rose was born. They said he played the violin.”
After leaving the marina, with Janos and Mariya in the Class C following Niki and Lazlo in the Caravan, Lazlo couldn’t help thinking of the redheaded violin-playing deserter he’d shot near the Hungarian and Romanian borders. No. What good was thinking 50 years in the past? Concentrate on the present.
He turned to Niki. “We should get rid of the Russians, yet keep them in abeyance.”
“Leave them stranded in the mountains,” said Niki. “Who’d give them a ride?”
“Excellent. And in a little while I’ll call the Homeland Security pair in the Lincoln Navigator and send them on a goose chase to the marina.”
“The crowd assembles while we go to Vernal,” said Niki, handing Lazlo a slip of paper.
Lazlo read aloud. “Decken MaCade, Mountain View Care Center.”
“I already put it in the GPS.”
“The GPS is like my brain,” said Lazlo.
“How?”
“It’s as if I’ve been here before. A view from above, but in 1939. The gullies and mountains remind me of the Carpathians.” Lazlo paused. “I can imagine it in winter. Victor and I—boys—sent to arrest a deserter. Victor shot and me shooting the violinist—the Red Gypsy. A family line of redheads, the grandfather a redhead. Somehow red hair, specifically Clancy’s, mixes in with the red walls of the canyon…I’m being foolish.”
Niki glanced toward Lazlo. “Psychic connections are anything but foolish.”
Rather than driving aimlessly searching for his mark in the Dodge Caravan, or waiting for word from Pescatore, Guzzo felt the Lincoln Navigator pair would eventually provide needed information. They were government agency, their interest in Niki Gianakos further evidence Pescatore’s opinion of things coming to a head was true.
He followed without being observed. The Navigator pulled into a parking lot off the main street. He parked in a strip mall out of sight of the Navigator. He put on a watch cap and oversized weathered denim jacket he carried in the side compartment of his main bag. He shouldered his equipment bag, a well-worn backpack. In worn jacket and broken-in hiking boots, he could be a local ambling down the side of the road, or a homeless man.
As he walked through the strip mall lot, he noticed a black Chevy Suburban. A similar Suburban had tried following on his last trip to the area when he was driving the tow truck. Wyoming plates, darkly-tinted windows. No one inside. Brushing his hand at a front wheel well opening, he felt heat; the Suburban’s engine recently turned off. He went over a rise behind strip mall dumpsters, pausing to look back using binoculars. No one in the Suburban, but inside a laundromat two men who did not look like they were there to wash their underwear. One stood staring out the window. The other sat in a chair talking on a cell phone. Both wore dark shirts and slacks and had short haircuts. If there were more operatives, as Pescatore hinted, these two were better at keeping their distance than the crispy critters in the Charger, or the man and woman in the white Navigator.
Guzzo took a short cut through a park. The Lincoln Navigator was parked at the Green River Historical Society that backed up to open land with the interstate and the landmark Castle Rock in the distance. The setup was quick once he found a gully along the edge of the parking lot. Through binoculars he read the hours of operation. Because the Navigator was parked in the side lot, it seemed they were waiting for the place to open, which would be soon.
A car arrived, parked at the side, and a woman went around to the front and unlocked the door. After the pair from the Navigator went inside, Guzzo removed his long distance microphone from his bag and set it up in a growth of sagebrush, much to the dismay of a lizard that ran across loose stone in the gully. The visit to the historical society must have a connection to Niki Gianakos. Her father had been in the CCCs and she, like others, was most likely researching the Manila camp to the south. Guzzo aimed the directional microphone at the passenger compartment of the Navigator.
The two were in the building a long time. Another car pulled up, dropping off a very old woman who tottered in. He heard an occasional car drive past on a road behind him, but the guardrail blocked him. His plan, should he be approached, was to feign having spent the night in the gully. A police car drove past but obviously the officer did not see him, driving on to a Subway in the distance. The only creature aware of him was the lizard, making its way in fits and starts back to the sagebrush.
After nearly an hour, the woman and man came out of the building and got back into the Navigator. Guzzo was about to pack up so he could hurry along the gully back to the 350 when the windows on the Navigator powered down. Perfect, the couple began speaking.
“I feel sorry for that old woman,” said the man, his sunburned arm out the window.
“The curator’s panties were wedged,” said the woman.
“Did you have the feeling the old woman didn’t want to talk?”
“The curator’s the only reason we learned anything, complaining about the Greek woman. At least we found out about the marina. Her saying the niece had a strange partnership was homophobic.”
When the Navigator started, Guzzo put his microphone away and ran along the gully back to the strip mall. The black Suburban and the men who’d been in the laundromat were gone. Once he fired up the 350 it didn’t take long to catch up. He kept his distance, using hills and switchbacks for cover. The Navigator crossed the bridge over the Green River and headed south toward mountains on the horizon. After Black’s Fork there was a sign for Buckboard Marina, but the Navigator continued south. Eventually, after cat-and-mousing behind the Navigator for 50 miles on the treeless terrain, it turned east toward the gorge. A sign said “Lucerne Valley Marina and Campground.”
The road angled southeast and downhill. It was curvier than the main highway, with lookouts and side trails popping up on both sides. Cars, pickups, and campers rushed
past, the marina apparently popular. Suddenly, flashing lights on his tail. He pulled to the side with others. A State Police SUV sped ahead. The Navigator was also pulled to the side. He waited to get a few more cars between him and the Navigator, knowing the road eventually ended at the gorge.
A red Dodge Caravan came by going in the opposite direction. Guzzo tried to see the rear plate, but a motor home behind the van blocked his view. This wasn’t the first red Caravan he’d seen on the way down from Green River. It would be a giveaway to U-turn on the narrow curvy road. He was about to pull out and keep going when another police SUV sped past, Dagget County Sheriff.
Guzzo’s second sight began kicking in. Perhaps the police SUVs had to do with Niki Gianakos and her friend. He got the 350 back on the road, following two pickups pulling fishing boats. When he was within sight of the campground, reservoir, and marina, he stayed behind the last pickup. Ahead, he saw that the sheriff’s SUV that had passed a short time earlier was pulled up beside the white Navigator in the marina parking lot. The woman and man from the Navigator stood outside, the sheriff apparently checking IDs while two state police officers looked on.
Guzzo’s second sight went into high gear. The red Dodge Caravan that had passed followed by a motor home. If Niki Gianakos and her partner Lazlo Horvath knew they were being followed, calling the police to delay the tail is what an ex-cop would do.
He turned into the campground ahead of the marina, spitting gravel as he headed back onto the road. They’d be going south. Cops were back at the marina and he drove aggressively, moving slow vehicles aside. Finally, approaching the small town of Manila, he caught up and saw the Caravan turn onto Route 44 toward Vernal with the motor home close behind. Neither stopped in Manila and there was no Chevy Suburban. Second sight, and the close distance between the motor home and the Caravan, told Guzzo the vehicles were traveling together.
Halfway along the scenic byway through the mountains to Vernal, near an elevation sign at 9,500 feet, Niki pulled into a scenic overlook.
The Girl With 39 Graves Page 26