A Triple Thriller Fest (82 page)

Finally, Walsh spoke.  “As far as I can tell, you probably have some bad gas.  Have you filled the tank at all?  What we’ll do is put some gas conditioner in the tank and run it for a few minutes.  That should clear up the problem.”

“Oh, thank you so much, Mr. …eh?” said Mildred.

“Walsh, Tim Walsh.”

“How long will this take, Mr. Walsh?”

“About twenty minutes, Mrs. Lutsen.  Would you care to sit down?”  He directed Mildred to the only seats in the garage, which were in front of a small gray metal desk at the front of the store.

Mildred took a seat and as she was sitting down, Walsh pushed the papers on top of the desk into the top middle drawer.  As the papers disappeared from view, Mildred saw one sheet of paper from a memo pad with some pencil markings on it.  The printed logo on the memo sheet said, “Reedy Securities.”

Mildred immediately averted her eyes, and then she saw the little white stuffed bear.  It was sitting on a shelf, behind the desk.

Walsh finished clearing off his desk and then went back to working on the Toyota Celica.

After a short while, the engine of the Ford Taurus was running smoothly.  Walsh detached the mechanic’s light and closed the hood with a solid metallic thud.

“She’s ready now, Mrs. Lutsen.”

“How much is it, Mr. Walsh?”

“That’ll be twenty dollars, including the gas conditioner,” said Walsh.  “You were very fortunate to have the engine act up right outside my door.  A tow would’ve cost you another fifty dollars.”

“Uffda,” said Mildred.  “Boy, am I glad you were here.  Thank you, very much.”

After handing Walsh twenty dollars, Mildred got into the rented Ford Taurus, backed it out of the garage repair bay and turned back on to Lake Street.  Through the window, she waved to Walsh.  He did not return the wave, he merely looked at her with his pale blue eyes, turned around, and walked slowly back to the Toyota Celica.

0800 Hours: Wednesday, June 16, 1993: Bethesda, Maryland

Mildred picked up the house telephone in the lobby of the Hyatt Regency Hotel in Bethesda, Maryland.  “Mike?”

“Mildred, how are you doing?”

“I need to talk to you, are you busy?”

“Why don’t you come up to my room?” he said.

“Be right there.”

The knock on the door coincided with Mike just having finished pulling the coverlet over his bed and pulling on a pants and tee shirt.  He opened the door and Mildred walked in.

“Been busy, eh?” he said.

“You bet — you’re bleeding!”

“Mildred, do you know how hard it is to commit suicide with a safety razor?  Next to impossible,” said Mike, smiling.

“Yeah, it just doesn’t work,” said Mildred knowingly.

Mike stopped smiling.

“So what do you have on our Julie Davenport?” said Mike.

“A real mystery.  Her life in Des Moines was as sterile as can be. No friends, no life, just puzzles.  For example, I think she had some kind of relationship with an auto mechanic in Minneapolis, named Tim Walsh.  Strange man, doesn’t say much, just stares through you with his pale blue eyes.  One thing that is puzzling.  He either has the same white stuffed bear that I saw in Davenport’s personal effects in Des Moines or has an exact duplicate for some reason.  He also had a sheet of paper with Reedy Securities printed on it.  What troubles me is how he might have obtained the stuffed toy right after I saw it the day before in Julie Davenport’s office.”

“Adams is having Davenport’s birth certificate checked.  I wouldn’t be surprised to find out she’s an impostor like Jerry Mitchell.”

“I wouldn’t either.  What do you think we have here, Mike?”

“I see two problems.  First, how do these people know when we’re traveling?  Two, who are these people?  Despite what George thinks, there has to be a connection, because the attacks on our people have always involved travel.  Let’s find out how travel arrangements are made.  I think we have to wait until Adams finds out more about some of these names, including Davenport and Trent.”

“Who’s Trent?” said Mildred.

“Apparently, this guy Trent arranged survivalist training sessions in which Mitchell participated.  His full name is John Trent.  He has also disappeared,” answered Mike.

The telephone rang and Mike walked across the room to pick it up.

“Hello.”

“Mike?  This is Herb.  We have a new mystery.  According to InfoNet, Julie Davenport’s manager at Reedy Securities, Steven Clark, was killed last night.  Looks like a robbery, but given the weird things that have happened recently, I just don’t know.”

“That is weird.  Say, Herb, can you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Can you find out how travel arrangements are made or approved for CSAC agents?  I’m particularly interested in any people who had access to information on all of our travel arrangements.”

“Say, that’s a good thought.  I’ll get my ace, Martha Thomas, on that right away.  Oh, if she’s to be effective, I’m going to have to bring her in.”

“I’ll speak to the old man,” Mike said.  “I’m sure there won’t be any trouble.”

Martha Thomas was one of the new breed of FBI special agents.  In the past, agents tended to be white males with degrees in either law or accounting.  As the seventies and eighties unfolded, the agency came under tremendous pressure to modify its hiring practices to include a wider cross-section of Americans.  Like all institutions, its ability to change depended on its needs.  During the eighties, the explosive growth of computerized information systems forced the FBI to start developing expertise in this area and with that change came people of all colors and both sexes.

Martha, a graduate of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge, Massachusetts, never thought her computer science degree would lead her on this path.  Twenty-six, slim, and athletic in build, Martha had been once described by her M.I.T. classmates as the most beautiful nerd in the world.  The proud possessor of a tremendous mane of strawberry blond hair that hung in natural curls, she had light hazel eyes and beautiful skin.  Martha wore horn rimmed glasses to give herself a business-like look.

Martha had been bitten by the computer bug as a freshman in high school in the early Eighties, where she was inspired by her teacher, the avuncular Arthur Morrison, who had made it his life’s work to bring the new technology of computer science to young school children.  Morrison was particularly fond of Martha, who quickly became one of his first star pupils; an affection that was returned by Martha.  She worshiped him like a father.

Martha was first in her class at Quantico and was a nationally-ranked shootist.  Proficient in martial arts as well, she most enjoyed spending time in front of computer screens, catching bad guys.

“While you’re at that, why don’t you have her check out a Timothy Walsh in Minneapolis as well?” said Mike.

“No problem,” Adams said.  “Oh, by the way, I need to get up to Minneapolis pretty soon to take care of some personal business.”

Mike replaced the telephone on its cradle.

“Let’s see what that turns up,” He said to Mildred, who was sitting on the sofa.  “Incidentally, Mildred, did you visit Davenport’s office while you were in Des Moines?”

“Why, yes.  Remember, I told you that I searched her belongings.”

“Well, the office manager, Steven Clark was killed last night.  You’re not up to your old tricks, are you?”  Mike arched an eyebrow.

“Oh, my stars!  He was such a sweet man.  Do you suppose that he might have been killed by that terrible Walsh?  I’m sure that stuffed bear on his shelf looked just like the one that Julie Davenport had with her belongings.  Also the paper from Reedy Securities on his desk.  My heavens, that poor man.”

“I think that your Mr. Walsh needs more looking into.”

1100 Hours: Thursday, June 17, 1993: Bethesda, Maryland

“Oh, Mr. Liu, there’s a telephone message for you,” said the young female clerk at the front desk of the Bethesda Hyatt Regency as Mike returned from a visit with Smith.

“Thank you,” said Mike as he took the message asking him to call Adams in Minneapolis.

As the elevator door slid close on the entering Mike Liu, the intense young man looked up from the newspaper that he had been reading.  The angular jaw on his young face was set in a clench as he crumpled the newspaper and tossed it on the cushioned bench.  Taking off his rimless glasses and wiping them with his handkerchief, the young man walked over to the elevator and pushed the up button.

When Mike got up to his room, overlooking the plaza of the Hyatt Regency and the entrance to the Washington Metro, he dialed Adams’ office in Minneapolis.

“Good morning, Federal Bureau of Investigation.  How may I help you?”

“Is Herb Adams in?” said Mike.

“You bet.  I’ll see if he is busy.”

“Agent Adams.”

“Herb, it’s Mike.  What’s up?”

“As usual, Martha has come up with some rather startling information.  Davenport is an impostor.  The real Julie Davenport was born in Joliet, Illinois, on January 3, 1958, but died in a traffic accident in December 18, 1960.  A real tragedy.  The entire family was wiped out in a head-on with an eighteen wheeler.  It seems that somebody is doing a landslide business in false identifications.”

“What about Tim Walsh?  Mildred and I think that he may be involved in the slaying of that office manager.”

“As far as we can tell, he immigrated to the United States from Canada about fifteen years ago, worked for awhile in the Ford assembly plant in Windsor, Canada, then in the General Motors plant in Pontiac, and finally migrated to Minneapolis about eight years ago to set up his auto shop.  He claims to have been born in the Northwest Territories of Canada.  We’re having the Royal Canadian Mounted Police check into that angle.”

“I’ll bet we’ll find a dead baby there, too.”

“You know, Mike, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were becoming paranoid.”

“What about John Trent?” said Mike.

“That’s a tough one, the name is too common and we have no hooks.  That Bedford fellow ran a pretty loose ship, no employment records, no W-2s.  Couldn’t find any social security number in Bedford’s files.  Bedford insists his salesmen are contractors and not employees, so he didn’t file withholding taxes — nice scam.  I’ve asked my friends in Treasury to look into that one.”

“What about the travel angle?”

“Martha is still working on that.  So far, what George said at our last meeting seems to be the case.  Each trip was individually arranged by separate CSAC offices.  There is a modem tie-in between the various CSAC offices, but as far as we can determine that tie-in is not used for travel scheduling purposes.  Seems to be a dead end.”

“Let’s stick with it for now.  I just feel there has to be a connection there somewhere.”

“Don’t worry, Mike.  Martha is a pit bull on things like this.”

Mike put the handset on the telephone and walked into the bathroom.  As he was turning on the hot water, there was a loud knock at his door.

“What the?” muttered Mike as he picked up a towel to wipe his hand.  Mike looked through the view hole and was surprised at what he saw.

“Eastwood!  What are you doing here?”

“The senior on the Fairington project needed to get some cash flows to you and asked that I come down with the information,” said Eastwood holding up a manila envelope for Mike to see.

“Wait a minute, I need to get some pants on,” said a grim-faced Mike Liu.  “I’ll be right with you.”

Mike quickly walked to his duffel bag and got his Walther pistol out of its holder.  He carefully screwed on the DARPA designed silencer, released the safety and walked carefully to the door, holding the Walther behind his back.  With this left hand Mike opened the door and gestured Eastwood to come into the room.  “What do you need?”

“The senior needs your signature on this underwriting contract, Mr. Liu.”

As Eastwood walked into the room, Mike quickly aimed his Walther and squeezed the trigger.  “No one knew I was here,” he said to the now lifeless body of Eastwood, Ex-Choate, Ex-Harvard, Ex-Yale, Ex-Life.

Mike quickly stanched the flow of blood from Eastwood’s head wound.  Mike was now faced with disposing of the lifeless body.  Opening the door to his room, Mike looked up and down the hall to see if there were any people around.  Seeing no one, Mike picked up the corpse of Eastwood, carefully holding him as if he were helping a drunken friend.  Mike was surprised how light Eastwood was.

“Must be all those damn sprouts and power lunches,” he said, grim-faced.

Mike carried the body to the service elevator, pushed the down button and waited for the doors to open.  As the doors closed on the slumped body of Eastwood, Mike whispered, “Say hi to your pa-pa, asshole.”

1993: Watching

0800 Hours: Wednesday, June 16, 1993: Watch Station One

The hatch closed with a metallic clang.  A whoosh of air indicated that the passageway to the transfer submersible was being flooded to outside pressure.  McHugh climbed down the ladder to the metal grating of the deck.

Two men waited for the older man to reach the bottom of the ladder.  In the background, they could hear the metallic sounds of the transfer submersible breaking seal, the gentler, heavier metallic clang of the outer hatch seating itself, and finally the whirring sounds of the transfer submersible’s thrusters fading into the void.

“Welcome, Admiral, we’re glad to have you on board.  It’s been a long time,” said Captain O’Shannon.  Watch Station One was anchored 18,000 feet below the surface of the ocean.

Watch Station commanders were hand-picked by McHugh.  Typically, these men were those whose loyalty and devotion to duty were beyond question.  O’Shannon was a perfect example of this devotion to duty.

O’Shannon’s deputy, Joshua Wong, stood quietly by.  Wong was a young Annapolis graduate, plucked out of the nuclear Navy at a very young age, primarily because of his post-graduate work at the Woods Hole Institute of Oceanography on deep ocean geomagnetic interferometric phase characterization.