3 - Buffalo Mountain: Ike Schwartz Mystery 3 (11 page)

Chapter 22

Andover Crisp had a problem. In fact he had a whole laundry list of problems. It had not been his idea to extract Kamarov from Novosibirsk in the first place. That had come down from the director’s office. One of his know-it-all recruits sold him on the idea and he ordered the black ops division to go in and bring the Russian spook out. Only then had Crisp received orders to make the damn-fool operation work. Nobody had the sense to find out what the man did or did not know. He’d promised something on 9-11 but hadn’t as yet produced anything that couldn’t have been gleaned from the internet, if you knew where to look. He did have some interesting things to say about a deep sleeper in the CIA a while back. The sleeper had been on station for a dozen years and moved into a very sensitive area and done considerable damage to the Agency’s missions. A number of field operatives had their cover blown. It was useful information, but…putting together Cutthroat, including the extraction, had cost the Bureau a cool ten million, none of it logged on the budget, which meant a whole lot of departments were going to buy a whole lot of non-existent paperclips. And the end wasn’t in sight. Now the Russian had flown the coop. No one knew where or why he went. Crisp’s only hope of recovering the asset was to follow the money and hope Kamarov wasn’t as clever as he’d come to believe.

The director had started calling him at home and in the middle of the night. That’s how it began. When the director decides to dump someone—he starts calling in the middle of the night. Then memos appear in your email. Memos you never saw or wrote. Of course, the idiot who thought up this Looney Tunes operation would be insulated from any responsibility. The only bright spot Crisp could see was that the idiot would be promoted and then the next moronic operation to emanate from on top would land in his lap.

The phone rang. The director?

“Crisp here.”

“He’s on the move again.”

“Where?”

“He seems to be headed south on I-77 toward Charlotte. He’s using one of his credit cards to take cash advances from ATMs.”

“Why the credit card? Why not the bank card? All the big money is in the bank. He’ll need the credit card later.”

“Can’t say, sir. Here’s something else. He used a different card to book into a motel near I-81 last night.”

“Motel? What the devil is going on here? Shut down the credit cards. Make him use the bank card. I don’t want those bills coming in—not at the rate he’s running them up.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“That’s all for now, Kevin, thank you.”

Crisp pushed his chair back and steepled his fingers under his chin. Something did not fit. What had he missed? He closed his eyes. He needed to think. He lit a cigar—a definite no-no in the new director’s tenure, but Crisp and his unit were out in the country and there would be no nicotine police to tattle on him. He breathed in contraband Cuban smoke and closed his eyes. Something…what? He ran through the few facts he had. He wondered if there might be another interpretation to them that he might have overlooked. He sat, eyes closed and fingertips together, for a long time. His secretary came into the office, recognized the posture, and left. Finally, he emerged from his reverie and picked up the phone.

“Kevin, I have another assignment for you. I want you to search again for John Does. You’re to stay cloaked, you understand? I don’t want anybody to know we’re looking. Hack into police department computers if you have to, for unidentified men, bodies, whatever, and call me back if you find something. Oh, and concentrate on the greater Richmond area particularly.”

Was it possible Kamarov was already dead and consigned on some departmental blotter as just another derelict? Did he traipse off to Richmond to get laid again and end up mugged in an alley instead? Did some bimbo strip him of his cards and leave him in the gutter—another homeless man with no ID—now just a body cooling in the morgue? That scenario would solve at least half of Crisp’s problems. He rubbed his hands together, whether in anticipation or hope, he wasn’t sure.

***

Whaite stopped at the volunteer fire station and greeted the men on duty. He recognized some of their names but none well. Returning to the mountain had not been a trip down memory lane. His childhood had been hard. Not that his parents were abusive—on the contrary—but they worked a hardscrabble farm that barely put food on the table. As soon as he was able, Whaite started working at the Exxon station. There, he learned the basics of auto mechanics. The meager wages he earned, he handed over to his mother, who would peel off a dollar or two for him to keep. The farm finally failed and his folks moved on to Baltimore to work construction. Whaite stayed on the mountain looking after the house and working at the gas station until he heard about the police academy and a chance to step up in the world. Picketsville needed a deputy and would sponsor him. He snapped at it. He’d served under Sheriff Loyal Parker for a few years. Parker was a bully and knew less about police work than anyone in the office. Ike’s election came at just the right time. Whaite had already started a job search when Ike took over.

There wasn’t much to be learned from the crew on duty. They told him that by the time they got a call and made it to Bolt’s house, the roof had already collapsed. They shut down and sat out the fire. The only job left for them to do was keep it from jumping to the trees and starting something in the forest.

“Too bad,” one of them said. Whaite thought he looked like one of the Childress boys but couldn’t be sure. “Steve had that place about all fixed up. He had his permit to hook up to propane and everything. He did a nice job, too. Them space heaters need watching twenty-four seven. If they don’t set the house on fire, they’ll get you with the carbon monoxide. He shoulda known better.”

“And if it wasn’t an accident?”

“What? Who’s saying so?” The other men looked up at Whaite.

“I was out there yesterday. His space heater was off.”

“You went to his house?”

“No, I checked out the chimney. No hot air, none of the swirls it makes when it rises that you see, especially on a cold, sunny day.”

“Anyway, not seeing smoke or exhaust from the chimney don’t prove anything. It coulda been on pilot, or a thermostat, and kicked in after you left.”

“Could. You been in his house, do you remember a thermostat? I mean, if he was going to hook up a propane tank, why would he go to the expense of buying a space heater with a thermostat?”

“You got a point. And Steve, he didn’t earn too much. Better lately, when he got that part-time handyman job with the guy up in Floyd.”

“When I was up there, there were tire tracks leading out, but not back. This morning I saw your truck’s tracks and traces of at least one other set. That car went in after I was there and before you arrived, and it wasn’t Bolt.”

“I remember them tracks. Didn’t mean anything to me at the time.”

“Wick Goad says Sonny Parker sold kerosene to some strangers just before that and he saw them head up the mountain.”

“Who’d want to burn Steve out?”

“I don’t know. I thought maybe you guys could help.”

“How?”

“What can you tell me about the man he works for?”

“Nothing. Steve, he’s pretty tight about him. Just said he paid pretty good and he didn’t have to do too much.”

“Did any of you ever see him?”

The men looked at one another, lips pursed. Finally one cleared his throat. “I did. Just one time and not too good. Here’s the thing. I don’t want to get in the middle of some old mountain thing so you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Some old mountain thing?”

“You know how it was—well, it sometimes pops up again—old feud or something. So, like I said, I didn’t get a clear view of him but he looked like a Harris.”

Chapter 23

Saturday mornings marked the end of the week. That was the good news. The bad news, another week would start in twenty-four hours. Ike took a deep breath and pushed through the glass door of the Crossroads Diner. He was immediately assaulted by the mixed aromas of coffee, bacon, and frying onions—and loud voices. Not the usual chatter about local gossip, politics, and Hokie football, but voices raised in anger. Flora Blevins held her finger a quarter of an inch from Brent Wilcox’s nose.

“Let me tell you something, you carpetbagger, this diner ain’t going nowhere.”

“You might be persuaded to the contrary when I bring in paper defining the town’s right of eminent domain.”

“Maybe. And you might be persuaded to the contrary by a right-up-your-caboose-with-a-pump-action twelve-gauge.”

“Are you threatening me? Ms. Blevins, I can swear out a warrant and have you arrested. A felony conviction would make your case for holding out extremely difficult. There are all these witnesses.” Wilcox turned to the assembled breakfast clientele. “You heard what she said.” He caught sight of Ike and turned to him. “Sheriff, I insist you arrest this woman for assault. She threatened me. These people are my witnesses.”

“Anybody hear Flora threaten Mr. Wilcox?” No one replied. “Looks like you must have been mistaken, Wilcox. None of these good people heard a thing. You were probably speaking too softly.”

“You heard her. I know you did.”

“Sorry, I found myself so enthralled by the scent of fresh brewed coffee I lost track of everything else.”

“She threatened me and I plan to swear out a warrant.”

“Be my guest. Miss Falco over at the station will help you with that, but I think you’re wasting time. It’ll be a ‘he says, she says’ thing in the end.”

For what seemed a full minute but couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, Wilcox glared at Ike. “I’ll have your badge, Sheriff.”

“If you think you’re up to the job, go for it. In the meantime, I’ll be watching you.”

Wilcox stumped out, cursing.

“Who is that creep, Ike? Where’s he get off coming into my diner that I have been running since my old daddy died and left it to me, and tell me to move it or he’ll tear it down?”

“He’s what they used to call a shill, Flora. He makes things happen by bluff and bluster. The law of eminent domain is nowhere as simple as he wants you to believe. He can’t do anything without the Town Council approval. They can’t invoke it without a master plan. They can’t implement a master plan without hearings and on and on. As much as Wilcox and his speculator friends want to grab up real estate, there are more who will put the pressure on the Council to keep the Crossroads in place.” The patrons nodded and a few applauded. “There, you see? And I loved the bit about the twelve-gauge up the caboose. Nice touch.”

“You didn’t do so badly there yourself, Ike. Breakfast is on the house.”

A free breakfast called for a celebration of sorts, so Ike sat in a booth instead of his usual place at the counter. He wouldn’t have to order. Flora always brought him the same thing every morning. Once he tried to shift to the Valley Triple Stack—three humongous pancakes awash in butter and syrup, but Flora brought him two eggs over easy, bacon, grits, and whole wheat toast—buttered. He gave up. Flora held as her dietetic credo—eggs, bacon, grits, and toast were the only sensible way to begin a person’s day. She did not want to see Ike slip into bad dietary habits, so whatever he ordered, she overruled and served him his usual.

Ike had not called Ruth the night before. She wanted to be alone and he’d decided to respect that. He’d meant to call Sam but forgot. He considered calling Charlie and decided to wait until later in the morning. He did connect with Whaite, who told him he thought Steve Bolt worked for Kamarov. That was news, assuming someone saying the man he worked for “looked like a Harris” qualified as a lead. Bolt’s house torched probably had more immediate significance. Why would anyone want to do something like that? Unless the man
was
Kamarov. Then…then what? So far, only Sam, Whaite and he…no, that wasn’t right…Sam, Whaite, Ruth, Charlie, and he knew Kamarov was dead. Unless Bolt killed him and dumped the body in Picketsville figuring nobody that far away would make the connection. But then, who set fire to his house?

He mopped up some egg yolk with a toast crust and paused, hand in midair. He lowered it and pulled a clean napkin from the dispenser on the table. He retrieved his pen and wrote down the four possibilities he’d identified as likely sponsors of the black program.

1. Central Intelligence Agency

2. Federal Bureau of Investigation

3. Defense Intelligence Agency

4. National Security Agency

5. Other?

He put a plus after the CIA, a double plus after the FBI, a minus after the DIA, and a double minus after NSA, rating each as likely candidates. The
Other
category he added in case their search drifted into the area of those unnamed and unaccounted for programs he knew existed in the darker recesses of the government but rarely identified.

Where did Bolt fit? He finished his breakfast, endured a dirty look from Flora for not finishing his grits, and asked for a second cup of coffee and a piece of paper. When the coffee arrived, he transferred his list to the paper and studied it. He pulled Charlie’s secure cell phone out and turned it on. He fumbled in his pockets and found the number he’d been given to call and punched it in. There followed an empty space and then Charlie answered.

“It’s about time I heard from you. What have you been doing?”

“Long story, Charlie, and I’m not in a place where I can tell it, but here’s what we have so far.” He filled him in on Sam’s tracking and what seemed three other entities stalking Kamarov’s money transactions. That meant at least two of them believed he was alive. He assumed one belonged to Charlie’s people. He told him about the arson at Bolt’s house. Could Charlie think of any reason why someone who might have been working for Kamarov would have his house burned to the ground? Charlie said he was stumped.

“Suppose they were looking for something, couldn’t find it, but believed it was hidden in the house? To make sure it never surfaced, they burned it to the ground. If I’m right, they’ll be after Bolt next.”

“Where is he?”

“Bolted—no pun intended. He’s gone to ground. But my deputy said he drove an old VW beetle. Shouldn’t be too hard to find. Any news on your APB?”

“Nothing yet. You realize it will be easy for whoever is after him, too. If they can tap into our computer as easily as your gal tapped into theirs, an APB might have already led them straight to him.”

“You have a point. I’ll think about it.”

“Who’s your candidate for the second group? I assume you think you know who the first is.”

“Actually, I don’t. Here’s my list.” He read the five names and his ratings.

“You can pull the plus off of CIA. I checked.”

“You’d say that even if it weren’t true. The plus stays, but my guess is FBI. They have the most to gain by discrediting the CIA and that’s what I think this is all about. You guys are jockeying for position and prestige in the big restructuring of the intelligence community game and would be only too happy to leak some dirt about the other.”

“Okay. Maybe you’re right. But—”

“But that does not explain Bolt and arson. I know, so, I’m adding another name to the list.” Ike retrieved the list and his pen and wrote.

“Who?”

“Who indeed? Who has the most to gain by killing Kamarov? Not you. You would turn him or trade him for someone they have that you want. Not the FBI. If they bought him, they’d want to keep him for now and then put him in the witness protection program. So who gains from a dead Kamarov?”

“Are you going to tell me, or must I beg?”

“Begging would help. His former bosses, Charlie. They are the losers. They had Kamarov bottled up, but perestroika and the fall of Communism made them forgetful, or careless.”

“I vote for careless.”

“Okay, so instead of liquidating him as they would have in the old days, they send him off to an uncomfortable retirement. Then he turns up here. If you were Kamarov, what would induce you to come to the States?”

“Money, a new life, it couldn’t have been very upbeat for him in…what was that place?”

“Novosibirsk.”

“Right. You talked to Alexei in the old days. What would be your guess?”

“I think he might have been approached by whoever did this. I think he might even have set up the meet himself. He persuaded the people—we’ll assume the FBI for the moment—that he had information that would embarrass the Agency. He wouldn’t have much of anything that could be used against them, so FBI seems the likely choice, not you. They snap him up and whisk him to wherever. Then things get screwy.”

“Thanks for letting us off the hook. How screwy?”

“He moves to Floyd. Apparently, they did not keep him on a close leash or they would have noticed our asking about Randall Harris. That means…what? I don’t know. Could he have had a second ID they didn’t know about? That seems unlikely. Anyway, they haven’t.”

“Haven’t what?”

“Picked up on the fact that local police are pursuing Randall Harris and his friends.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, he’s shipped off to Floyd. Do you think the Bureau doesn’t know who makes up an important portion of the population down there? It had to be at his insistence.”

“I still don’t follow…wait…you think he used them to get to us?”

“Who’s he angry at, Charlie? Not the Agency, I don’t think.”

“He finagled his way over here to blow the whistle on his former bosses?”

“Somehow they found him and killed him. They dumped him in a place as far away as they dared to go from Floyd—small town with limited police. They couldn’t possibly know they picked the one town on the East Coast where there was someone who knew him by sight.”

“Wow. Okay, but that ends your search, you know. Even if you could get witnesses and evidence enough to arrest, the minute you get close, they’ll invoke diplomatic immunity and ship their muscle home.”

“But at least they’d know we know.”

“Why bother, Ike?”

“Charlie, in the insane world you inhabit, and I used to, you get to know people. When you are an operative, you don’t make friends, but to the extent two men on the opposite side of the fence could be, Alexei and I were friends. He tried to help me and paid the price. I owe him. If it’s at all possible, I’m going to get them.”

“Your call.”

“One more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“What if Alexei had documents.”

“If he thought he was in trouble or if he was killed, he might want to share them with the press! Blow the lid off everybody.”

“And?”

“He’d keep a copy hidden somewhere.”

“And someone torched Bolt’s house.”

“To get rid of the copies?”

“Works for me.”

Ike hung up and stared at the list. As neatly as he’d spun it out to Charlie, he knew it didn’t add up. They may have wanted to, but the Russians did not kill Kamarov. And where was Steve Bolt? The television blared out an infomercial from the local tourism bureau. He caught sight of a long shot down the Blue Ridge Parkway and a few seconds of a humpbacked Buffalo Mountain looming in the distance. At that moment it seemed menacing.