Iron Dogs and Caesar's Ruby

by Dave R. Mortensen

  Kirkland nodded. “Apparently so—actually, no,” he corrected himself. “We don’t know that. All we really know is the four packages were sent from the U.K. We’re assuming he’s reaching out now that his partner from that time has passed away.”

  “Damn,” Yamaguchi said with a scowl. “This has ugly written all over it.”

  “We’re going to have to juggle some things,” Kirkland said.

  “So we’re going back to Ellington tomorrow?”

  Kirkland reached behind his seat and removed a Jeppesen chart Alex Calder had given him. “David Wayne Hooks Memorial. It’s closer to the Calder ranch.”

  “Why do I get the feeling we’re going to find this General?”

  Kirkland nodded. “That’s the long and the short of it. I think there have to be some clues in what he sent but I haven’t found anything yet ... I brought the packaging – you should take a look.”

  Yamaguchi tied some thoughts together. “This all sounds interesting,” he said with a smirk then turned to his boss and asked pointedly, “But ... more importantly ... where you taking this fabulous Cruz woman tomorrow?”

  When Kirkland revealed what he had in mind Yamaguchi said with a phony oriental accent, “Ahh ... most excellent plan, round-eye.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Arlington Heights, Virginia, Thursday, May 22, 1997

  Over a thousand miles away from Houston, one of Nelson Bailey’s phone lines rang as he was watching the news. A call on that line at that hour of the night was highly unusual and he looked more closely at the display to see who might be trying to reach him.

  “Shit,” he whispered aloud after finally recognizing the number. He sighed heavily and grabbed the remote to mute the television system. What the hell are they up to now?

  The Russians who had originally hired him in the summer of 1996 were impatient, not to mention obnoxiously demanding and doing what he did for them had been more than just a little illegal; he had been glad to have them go away quietly without any further assignments no matter how financially rewarding at the time.

  The fact that it had taken him so long to finally prove Cecil Calder was Anton Nuryev that the old man had died before the Russians could get to him had infuriated his clients; they confided in Bailey they were depending on having Nuryev supply crucial information to find someone and his passing effectively stalled their search. Although Bailey had been paid as agreed for the job of finding him, the strain in their business relationship had apparently been sufficient to end it.

  Now a year later he debated answering the call – but only for a few seconds; curiosity was part of his makeup and if anything, they paid well for his unique capabilities.

  Bailey’s resources of information about people included a very private network of individuals who traded data among themselves without regard for company privacy policies or laws. Among them were employees of insurance companies, banks, credit bureaus, skip tracers, law firms, collections agents and even people in courts and government agencies. In the burgeoning market Bailey thrived in, information was often used as currency; you just had to have access to some of it to trade – if you didn’t, all it took was real money. Some of his clients dealt in cash money and were loathe to record their participation through routine accounting procedures.

  His earlier professional career included over thirteen years as a Postal Service Inspector and he still had friends in law enforcement, especially in the District of Columbia area. When it came to very confidential assignments, he and his local contacts didn’t have to risk communicating electronically or at work; they could meet in any number of places to do business. In their realm, the most confidential things no one would ordinarily be able to find were bought and sold over drinks, a meal or even a round of golf and often delivered by word of mouth rather than on paper or via computer.

  His business success had really begun when he saw the opportunity to use the emerging power of the Internet to help creditors track down people that owed money. Almost at the same time, he realized he could give employers a way to weed out applicants who may have padded their resume or not fully revealed everything on job applications. Unlike the credit bureaus, Nelson Bailey operated in an underground economy where the rules were made by the participants.

  The remodeled garage of his modest home had become a growing office and computer room and the local phone company was hard pressed to keep up with his phone line and network bandwidth requirements. In early 1995 he had the first T1 circuit in the area put in, much to the amazement of the installation crews who had never seen such a thing in a residence. Not long after, he ran into the limitations of the residential communications infrastructure and had to find a suitable commercial location to house the rapidly growing business. In 1996, he moved into a stylish utilitarian-chic loft above the climate-controlled space that housed his racks of computers, network equipment and fax machines.

  That first year he moved, business was so good he paid more in income taxes than he had during his entire USPS career. Very private information about people that no one else seemed to be able to find was incredibly profitable and simple skip-tracing for collections accounts—while still an active line of business—was a diminishing part of his personal activities. He now had a small staff of contractors connected to his systems that he farmed out that routine kind of work to while he nurtured a number of very covert contacts among out-of-state law-enforcement entities to enhance his value with his existing Washington connections. The things he might be able to uncover for them might never be used as evidence in an actual trial but some kinds of information naturally led to finding people or bits of evidence that could be admissible. Investigators both public and private could depend on Bailey to find out if what they were about to go to extraordinary lengths to obtain would be worth the time, effort and especially the exposure of filing motions for search warrants.

  Not surprisingly, many of his clients were law firms, private investigators and other types of security operatives – one of which he had recruited in Houston a year ago for the Russian client’s project; the fact that the operative worked in the security department of the Calder’s business made him the ideal choice and the amount of money involved assured his silence.

  When he picked up the phone he answered, “Bailey,” then listened, recognizing the voice of Pavel Silayev as the Russian read off a Texas license number and asked him to find who owned it. “Hold on ... Okay, I’ll call you back ... Yes ... I know ... give me a few minutes,” he said then shook his head as the call ended without any common courtesies. “Fucking rude son of a bitch,” he grumbled aloud.

  From one of his computers in his office he logged into an insurance company database that soon gave him the name of the company the vehicle was registered to – a Texas LLC that he next found was officed at a law firm in Austin.

  He dialed and when the Russian answered he said, “It’s a law firm in Texas – he must be their attorn—”

  The retort from Silayev cut him off. “He’s not a lawyer. His name is Kirkland.”

  “Then that’s not his vehicle—”

  “Never mind that,” he heard the Russian order. “Find out everything you can ... on a Professor ... his name is Michael Kirkland. He’s from New York. He lectures at the University of Connecticut in Stamford ... He’s an appraiser. And do it quickly.”

  “It’ll take some time,” Bailey warned.

  “Five thousand pounds.”

  “Okay, twenty-four hours, maybe less.”

  Bailey heard the call disconnect and immediately realized the Russians were not ready to quit looking for something; suddenly there was another party involved that seemed to be of vital interest to them.

  “Money’s money,” he thought and then from his desk he began marshalling his network of resources. After several minutes he had the electronic wheels in motion to find out what kind of information was out there and how much it would cost to obtain some of it under extreme priority circumstances.
>
  He took a lap-top computer up to his residence area and connected it to the Ethernet network then watched out of the corner of his eye from time to time to see what responses he’d get.

  Five questions about the man being ‘an appraiser’ trickled in as he sipped his drink. Apparently there was more to the appraisal industry than Bailey had realized; there were four real estate appraiser hits on the last name but none of them were in New York. What the hell kind of appraiser is he?

  One of his best but most clandestine resources offered an interesting potential gold mine of information – a checking account activity register for two New York bank accounts under Michael C. Kirkland, Ph.D., one addressed at the World Trade Center and another at Cove Neck, Long Island. The price being asked was exorbitant because of the inherent danger of being found as the source of such information, but if there weren’t many more responses he knew he might have to pay it. The dates, amounts and Pay to the Order of information would create an easy path to finding out even more about someone and he knew that from that same source he could then acquire copies of any checks that were particularly interesting.

  But before he had to make a decision on paying that price, an insurance specialist offered something almost as intriguing but far less expensive – information from applications for insurance coverage on a number of aircraft that bore his name and signature; the most curious bits of information on that offer were the aircraft tail numbers.

  “Well now, a professor ... with insurance policies on seven airplanes,” Bailey mused aloud, knowing another source at the FAA in Oklahoma City would be able to provide interesting details if he wanted to track Kirkland’s planes and especially their whereabouts. He quickly typed a message to the insurance specialist that met the asking price and within minutes, twenty-six faxed pages of insurance documents began arriving. Even before the last one crept out of the machine he was composing his message to the woman who worked at the FAA.

  By the time he dialed Silayev’s number, a few other offers had been accepted and he knew the dossier he’d compiled was not only complete, but worth the offered price. The slightly less surly Russian was apparently duly impressed and Bailey knew five thousand pounds would appear in his offshore account within forty-eight hours.

  As he sat in his recliner staring at the silenced television screen, basking in his success, he was still wondering what or who the Russians might be looking for. Another thought suddenly came to him: What if I’ve already got what these fuckups are after?

  He looked at the phone as he considered the situation. They’re still looking for someone ... someone outside the U.S. ... someone Cecil Calder could have helped them identify or locate and this new player, this Professor sure as hell has them stirred up.

  The question really boiled down to whether or not the Russians would trust him enough to tell him who they were actually after. That’s the key to getting back in this game, he concluded.

  At some expense early on in the process he had obtained the senior Calder’s long distance phone records going back almost three years. Disappointingly, there had been very few international calls using the home number during that time and of those, they were to and from two hotels their son and daughter-in-law had stayed in – one in Israel and one in Singapore. In the last two years, Margaret and Cecil Calder had owned just one cell phone but it had never been used to make or receive an international call.

  Nothing in their substantial financial and property holdings indicated a relationship to anyone outside the country and they had reported no foreign investments or sources of income on their tax returns in the last seven years; their last foreign financial transaction had been an Amex card purchase during a cruise near Greece in 1991.

  With his mind churning Bailey took a deep breath and tried to relax by channel surfing among news stations, relying on his intuition to work on the problem at hand.

  He froze when the thought hit him: There has to be something in that house that could lead to the mystery man. There should be personal letters with names and addresses – things they couldn’t bear to part with even after all these years.

  He ruminated over those ideas several times then suddenly a redundant advertisement he had just skipped over triggered another thought: ‘When you care enough to send the very best’. He paused for a few seconds then it came to him: The funeral!

  Cecil Calder’s funeral had been fairly large even by Texas standards and his son Alex had large numbers of business relationships and acquaintances all over the world. Maybe the man they’re looking for would have at least sent a sympathy card ... no way to know, he thought. Cards would just be mailed ... if she kept them ... that’s one thing that could only be found at the house.

  Moments later another funeral-related idea struck him – Flowers! “Those I can find!” he said aloud and as he headed back to his office more ideas came to him: Birthday and Christmas presents; anniversary gifts; anything to or from overseas – why didn’t I think of this before?

  Within minutes, encrypted messages were sent to several people in his network and he knew sometime in the next few hours he would probably have several lists of data to comb through.

  - # -

  As Bailey’s network of sources started sending in files he began building a simple database, importing the names and addresses of anyone who had ordered flowers for the Calder family using a major credit card in the last twelve months. Within hours that file had grown to over 220 names in the U.S. and eighteen from other countries.

  What was even more curious was a file of information about international shipments from three of the major overnight carriers. As it started arriving he merged it to the database and immediately found something odd – four packages delivered to Margaret Calder, one per month beginning in February and all from England. All had been classified as gifts for customs purposes. Did she subscribe to something?

  It didn’t take long to find that none of those sender names matched up with the two from England who sent flowers to the funeral and none of them matched up with other credit card transactions. It wasn’t a smoking gun but it was something to offer and he reached for one of his phones and dialed Silayev again. “There’s probably something there, in the house,” he said after the Russian answered. “I’ve done some research ... ah, in case you’re interested ... It depends on who you’re looking for, chances are they’re on this list – and, interestingly, the widow has received four packages, all from one country.”

  There was a long pause then Bailey heard Silayev ask, “Can your man in Houston handle this?”

  “This what?” Bailey asked and paused to consider how well he knew Dennis Boland, the security guard at Calder’s headquarters. He had proven reliable at reporting the Calder family’s movements and providing Alex Calder’s office phone call records during the investigation last year but whether or not he was up to the task of a burglary was an unknown; there seemed to be no reluctance on the part of his clients to have him try it.

  “Offer him twenty thousand.”

  Bailey quickly assumed some portion of that would be his. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Keep me advised,” he heard.

  The connection was terminated and Bailey thought only briefly before sending an encrypted message to Dennis Boland’s last known email address.

  CHAPTER 18

  Berlin, Germany, Soviet Sector and Moscow, USSR, October, 1946

  A two-time Hero of The Soviet Union and expert on successfully deploying new aircraft with effective pilots, Colonel Alexsandr Kovpak’s career was now more about assessing his British counterpart’s capabilities and writing reports than being at the controls of a plane.

  Another massive reorganization of the Soviet military was underway and he was about to be promoted to Major General after being assigned to lead the team that would be negotiating with the British for the delivery of several Rolls-Royce jet engines. He had been a logical choice for the assignment; not only did he know
what it would take to get men and aircraft into mission-ready status, he spoke English fluently and had the respect of several high-ranking officers in the RAF, including one he knew from his training experience in 1942.

  It was hardly surprising that he would draw his staff from the officers of the training regiments he had commanded during and after the war and the latest of them coming to the Soviet-controlled sector in East Berlin was the young pilot he had met in Chkalov and had taken to his training staff in Lipetsk.

  Major Anton Nuryev walked into the imposing fascist-designed structure in Karlshorst and showed his identification to the sentries, neither of which knew the locations of offices, although one of them knew there was a Colonel Kovpak that had come in earlier and had gone to the third floor.

  Nuryev proceeded up the stairs with his footsteps echoing in the expanse of the nearly deserted building and on the third floor, near the end of a corridor he saw the small sign projecting out into the hall: ‘Полковник Ковпак’.

  The anticipation of seeing the Colonel again warmed him and he strode quickly down the corridor. Opening the frosted-windowed door he found the clerk’s desk empty but the door to the office beyond it open. “Colonel? Colonel Kovpak?” he called out, unable to conceal the excitement.

  Kovpak recognized the sound of the voice instantly and he rose then stepped quickly to the middle door and called out warmly, “Anton!” He strode to the visitor and they embraced like brothers then Kovpak held the younger but much taller officer by the shoulders and smiled. “Welcome to Hell,” he said vigorously.

  With his heavy coat off and after a salutary shot of vodka from a bottle he had brought with him as a gift, the two men sat and talked in the Colonel’s incongruously spacious office, smoking cigarettes and discussing what had transpired in their lives and careers since Kovpak had been dispatched to the Soviet sector of Berlin almost a year earlier.