The money also created a certain amount of local notoriety and made them welcome among some of the movers and shakers in the Houston area. They spent lavishly to entertain in their home to solidify and expand on his business connections but after a few very good years, some of those connections soured and even became litigious. There were others who didn’t take the ultimate step of suing but became more than just disconnected. Rumors spread; messages left on answering machines weren’t returned; encounters at local venues were cool if not frigid. Painfully, supposed friends drifted off into the distance as the tide of innuendo swept across the communities they had become a part of. It wasn’t long before there were only a handful of people outside of her own family who would return a phone message from her; she developed a love-hate relationship with the phone company’s ‘caller ID’ service.
The U.S. Attorney’s office and the IRS finally swept in and a year of even more painful, slow and all-too-public justice ensued, during which her husband’s infidelities and drug use were revealed as depositions and witness testimony painted a paradoxical picture of a man she had refused to recognize any real flaws in.
Not long after the grind through the judicial system, the bankruptcy court left her with nothing but her degree, some personal belongings, an old car and few friends – first among them the older sister of the man now serving twenty-eight years in a federal prison for a laundry list of crimes.
Despite the inevitable divorce and no matter what tongues wagged, the Calder family had been steadfast in their friendship and support. But even after resuming her life with her maiden name it had taken years to overcome the feelings of dread that people were talking behind her back; without the Calder’s unflinching loyalty and their stature in the community she probably would have been forced to try and start another life somewhere else away from people who knew her ex-husband.
Now confronted by such thoughts and with her emotions barely in check, Catherine gathered herself and asked her assistant calmly, “Do me a favor – tell them I’ll be up in just a minute. And thank you,” she said then her voice softened. “Look ... I’m, I’m sorry, Shannon ... I’m just ... shit ... you know what ... you really wanna know? I guess ... I guess I’m pissed off, actually,” she said with more determination.
Shannon’s face flashed a surreptitiously knowing smile as she recognized the change in her boss’ attitude. “You should be,” she suggested supportively as she headed off toward the elevator.
As Catherine continued to her office she tried to review everything that had happened from the first moment she had been introduced to ‘Michael Kirkland’. Her mind instantly fast-forwarded – vividly remembering the kiss she had given him and his response; physical sensations involuntarily rose and she had to concentrate to obliterate them.
She also remembered the business card he had written numbers on the back of and the phone call from him about Silayev. So what the hell happened after I dropped him off?
Once inside her office she pulled out her phone and looked at the calls she had received. There it was – the only one outside of the Houston area in the last two days: 516. And the other number on the card, his assistant, was also 516. The front side of the card had only his name with the words ‘Appraisal Services’ below it and two 212 area code numbers, one of which was noted as a fax machine. Those I know are New York, she reminded herself and confirmed it noting the 1 World Trade Center address.
She resisted the immediate urge to call him, torn between wanting to reassure herself and not wanting to appear too eager. I really shouldn’t have kissed him, she told herself, trying to quell the repeating tide of physical desire the memories of that kiss brought on. She sighed heavily then clenched her jaw and made her decision – despite her respect for Matt Dunlap and how much she liked him as a boss, someone else’s screw-up was not going to ruin this and there was no way she would let the irritating Silayev get to her.
It suddenly dawned on her that she also knew a secret the Russians would certainly not want revealed. “Oh shit,” she whispered as she thought about how to avoid the issue. They’ll want to know but ... they don’t know ... or do they? “Shit,” she whispered.
As the worry about what might be going on in the conference room mounted she put Kirkland’s card back in her wallet and dropped her handbag in a file drawer at the side of her desk then locked it. With her folio in hand, she took a deep breath and left quickly, turning in the empty hallway for the elevator, determined to be calm and collected. “Unflappable,” she quietly repeated several times before the doors opened and she entered the small elevator car. Moments later as she stepped out into the conference room lobby, she tried to imagine laughing about this silliness when she saw Michael again on Friday, but as a fortifier it didn’t work very well and her stomach told her so. She walked unhurriedly to the coffee cubicle, poured a cup she knew she shouldn’t drink then carried it casually past the glass walls of the conference room in full view of the three men and one woman seated around one end of the large table.
“Sorry, Matt, I didn’t mean to keep everyone waiting,” she offered pleasantly as she walked in then pushed between two empty chairs and took one. She deliberately avoided looking at the two Russians, instead giving Dunlap a steady, questioning gaze.
The always expensively-dressed senior executive seemed determined to not give the matter any more credence than he thought it deserved. “I didn’t see any need to ask you to come in early,” he said affably. “Do you recognize this man?” he asked as he slid a grainy picture across the table.
She felt every eye in the room on her as she looked at the image, a blow-up centered on a man’s face from what had to have been a camera somewhere in the ceiling of one of the gallery areas. She immediately nodded. “Yes ... that’s Professor Kirkland.” She kept a lack of concern on her face and tried to not reveal any emotion in her voice when she asked, “Why?”
The little Russian security man took a breath as if he was going to say something but Dunlap’s hand rose very slightly. “Just a moment, please,” he said politely without taking his eyes off Catherine. “Did you invite him?”
“No,” she began, “and I don’t know who did.” She shook her head and looked at the only other woman in the room, Dunlap’s irreplaceable right hand, Ronnie Collier. “He’s not in the database?”
The older woman she had known and worked closely with for several years shook her head and looked more than just disappointed that something like this could have ever happened under her watch. “I don’t know how, but that name wasn’t on the guest list,” she said worriedly tapping on a small stack of paper.
Catherine appeared genuinely confused. “I don’t understand how he could get in without an invitation.” It took several moments to remember the details and she sipped some coffee. “I didn’t meet him until later in the evening,” she said casually. “I don’t have any idea when he came in.” After thinking a few more seconds she said with a little bit of uncertainty in her voice, “El ... Elanore Calder introduced us ... but I’m not sure when.”
“Do you know anything about him?” Silayev asked.
Determined to not let this silliness go much further but not wanting to sound overly dismissive she said, “He’s from Long Island. He’s a professor at UCONN.” She shook her head slightly as she avoided looking at the Russians. “So?” she asked as her hand opened if she expected to hear something more.
“You-con?” Silayev asked.
“The University of Connecticut,” Dunlap answered.
“That’s what he said,” Catherine said evenly, trying not to let any hint of doubt creep into her demeanor.
Dunlap obviously didn’t have that bit of information at hand and he turned and asked Ronnie to call UCONN and find out if the man calling himself Michael Kirkland was actually a professor there.
Silayev turned to Ronnie. “I think you’ll find out there is one. But would you please ... see if you can get them to fax us something with a picture?�
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Dunlap looked dubious but grudgingly nodded toward his assistant and as she left the room he turned again to Catherine. “Any idea why he wanted to see these particular items?” he asked as he removed several more photo images from a folder and slid them in front of her.
She could see herself and Kirkland in the frame of each one and with mounting concern she thought carefully before answering. “I assume because we had been talking specifically about the older Romanov and pre-revolutionary Fabergé pieces ... where they originated, where they are now ... that kind of thing.”
Kurtz finally spoke. “From hearing his discussion with you, he appears to have an interest in incidents surrounding World War II.”
Catherine’s memory was triggered by the comment and she said, “Actually, Doctor, there was something ... he mentioned being very busy since the Feliciano book came out.”
Both Kurtz and Dunlap began nodding in concurrence.
“Indeed,” Kurtz said then leaned back. “Did he say anything about working on behalf of one of the families?”
She thought again but shook her head. “No. At least he didn’t say anything other than something about the book ... more like the fallout from the book had kept him busy.”
Silayev squinted at her distrustingly. “And he mentioned no names?”
Catherine shook her head and didn’t say what she was thinking: No, you twit, he didn’t mention any names. Instead she noted coolly, “I’m sure he considers his client’s identity to be highly confidential.”
Kurtz pointed a finger in the air for emphasis and spoke again. “None of the items in the control of the State Diamond Fund have ever been part of the Nazi acquisitions. If this professor were investigating on behalf of one or more of the families he would have been wasting his time here.”
Dunlap saw Catherine nodding in agreement and asked, “Did he give you a business card?”
She forced herself not to react and shook her head instead of letting them detect a lie in her voice.
Silayev sounded doubtful. “You didn’t exchange phone numbers?”
To help conceal the deceit Catherine looked offended. “He knows where I work. And no, I didn’t ask him for a number.”
“We want to know who he really is,” Silayev said.
Her frustration was again getting the better of her and she clenched and unclenched her jaw. “Who he really is?” she asked dismissively then didn’t wait for an answer. “He’s a serious academic,” she asserted firmly.
Fool ... or perhaps liar, Silayev thought. If he is an academic, he is a very dangerous academic. “He was reluctant to tell us who he was last night,” he said.
“People in this country are like that,” Dunlap noted.
Ronnie entered the room and handed Dunlap the slightly-curled pages of a fax, looking at Catherine with visible dismay as she walked behind the chairs and re-took her seat. Dunlap read for a moment, glanced in alarm in Ronnie’s direction then slid the pages across to Catherine. “That’s Professor Kirkland of the University of Connecticut,” he said, unable to conceal a certain tone of concern.
Catherine looked at the aging, balding, mustachioed total stranger in the picture and her stomach turned as she tried to mask the nervous response that was making the hairs on the back of her neck tingle.
CHAPTER 7
Leningrad, USSR, September, 1942
Lt. Vasili Surin stepped down from the wing of his aircraft in the chilled air and saluted the waiting General Alexsandr Krylov smartly. “Comrade General!”
“Congratulations, Comrade,” the senior officer said without revealing any of his excitement as he returned the salute. His eyes quickly became fixed on another plane just about to touch down in the distance then he looked around to watch another taxiing toward them. “How many?”
The younger man answered immediately while he was removing his parachute and harness. “All twelve, Comrade General.”
“Ah,” Krylov said, nodding quickly as if it were expected.
“No issues to report, Comrade General. Although the sea voyage ... it is not something I would wish upon anyone.”
“It would not be my choice of a mode of travel,” the General agreed honestly. “Are the radios functioning?”
“Yes, Comrade General. They are in good order.”
Krylov nodded. “Good ... very good.” It was hard to conceal his relief as the first and seemingly most difficult steps of this crucial mission were now completed. He smiled almost enough for the young pilot to notice then turned to watch another plane on approach through a pair of large binoculars that had hung around his neck. “The most difficult part of this mission is almost over,” Krylov advised and saw an immediate nod of agreement coupled with a expression of relief.
“Major Kovpak is a superior navigator.”
Krylov’s choice of leader for the mission was proving itself sound. At only twenty-seven, Alexsandr Kovpak was among the youngest surviving Majors in the Red Air Force and had distinguished himself in combat. He was also a natural leader of men and the fact that he had a command of the English language had accelerated their progress in Great Britain.
Stocky and about 170 centimeters tall, Kovpak’s boyish looks only contributed to the amazement other officers exhibited when they first met him. On more than one occasion in years past, a senior officer had seriously questioned him about his birth date, marveling at his flying prowess and record at such a seemingly young age. The more recent stories circulating about his exploits against the Japanese in the Khalkhin Gol or during the invasion of Poland were also seen by some through the lens of uncertainty – until they saw him fly.
When it came to politics, Kovpak was something of an enigma. Despite invitations, he had avoided taking a leadership position among the Communist party apparatus, participating as necessary but focusing his energy on developing and honing his flying skills and tactics as opposed to writing and speaking on non-aviation matters. Early in his career, recognizing the climate of anti-intellectualism Stalin had inculcated in the Kremlin, he avoided the limelight whenever possible, but his reputation and rapid advancement had attracted the attention of at least one surviving senior officer—Krylov—and now the General had dramatically changed his future.
The noise from the next aircraft coming into position on the tarmac inhibited any further communication and the General walked around the tail of Surin’s plane and waited while the other pilot finished his shutdown procedure. He greeted the airman and eventually repeated the process ten more times, finally returning Kovpak’s salute wearing a beaming smile. “It is good to see you again, very good indeed.”
“It is good to be here,” Kovpak said enthusiastically taking the general’s offered hand.
While ground crews chocked the wheels the pilots followed the General to the doorway of one of the nearby hangars. A few of them noticed the General wasn’t accompanied by any other staff officers and some noted the unusually large detachment of troops stationed in the distance all around the facility; a few heads tipped and fingers subtly pointed but no one spoke.
Despite the uncertainty they were all somewhat relieved to have returned to their element and grateful to be back in their own country no matter the course of the war or how bad things might have become. While the training at Duxford, England was a clear success and their first flight from that base to Glenegedale, Scotland had gone well, the rest of journey had been distinctly uncomfortable for most of them.
The British carrier, Avenger, with the Airacobras stowed intact below on the hangar deck, had joined a convoy departing from Loch Ewe off the coast of Scotland, and they soon began experiencing and enduring a voyage through the brutal Arctic sea. The passage lasted almost three weeks and none of the Russian pilots had ever spent time on board naval vessels of any size.
The bitter Arctic conditions meant they were forced to stay out of the elements in their quarters for most of the trip and even as officers they were somewhat isolated from the British ship
’s crew with the exception of meals in the officer’s mess.
Fortunately for those who didn’t adapt well to the continuously churning ride, there had been two days to recover on solid ground while the British Navy crews got the new aircraft out of the carrier’s hangar deck and hoisted by crane onto three Russian-manned barges. From there it took another half-day to have the barges pushed two miles across the Dvina and have them offloaded at Keg Ostrov.
The island where the Soviets maintained the airfield was the hub of preparation and assembly activity for the Lend Lease British Hurricanes being delivered in crates. Several British technicians that were trained on the P-39 had been dispatched there in advance and twenty-four hours after the planes were on the ground they had been inspected, fueled and started without any significant problems.
Just after dawn the following morning, Kovpak had taken to the air, loitering below the cloud deck as the others took off and joined him in a circling formation. He led them southwest, eventually across the shores of Lake Ladoga and into their landing pattern at the seemingly abandoned Smolnya Aerodrome, remaining in the air while his small squadron made a good show of proper procedure for the awaiting Krylov.
None of the pilots had served at Smolnya so the area and the aerodrome were completely unfamiliar. The fact that a complete barracks facility had been assigned to just the twelve of them seemed odd but not overly surprising given the secrecy of their mission.
“Your quarters for the time being, Comrades,” Krylov announced waving to the rooms along the hall then pointed behind him. “The briefing room is at the end of the hall, that way. The latrine and showers are through these doors,” he instructed, pointing at a set of double doors half-way down the hall. “Sort yourselves out and bring in your personal gear. A meal is being prepared in the building behind the hangar ...” he paused to look at his pocket watch, “yes, in thirty-five minutes. I will join you in the briefing room at twelve forty-five.”
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