Falling Star (15 page)

Reaching down to the red and white plastic cooler sitting in front of his feet, Mike rotated the cover open.  Inside the cooler were a half dozen rigid, triangular-shaped clear plastic containers each holding a cold sandwich.  The cover of each container contained a printed label describing its contents.  Mike hated reading the labels on packaged food.  Every time he did he marveled at the amount of preservatives and other chemicals thrown into those little packages.  He had once read about an archaeological excavation at a forty-year-old landfill, which uncovered forty-year old hot-dogs that still seemed fresh and edible.  Mike had never again eaten hot-dogs.

Whatever the hell is calcium stearate, anyway, thought Mike.

Also in the cooler were a dozen soft drinks in aluminum pop-top cans.  The selection went from root beer to diet colas.

"Chief, what would you like?"

"A ham sandwich would be great, and a diet Sprite."

Handing the sandwich and the diet drink to Margaret, Mike wondered how she had stayed so slim throughout the years they had worked together.  Probably from drinking diet soda.  After making sure that everyone was taken care of, Mike picked an egg salad sandwich and, following Margaret's example, a diet Pepsi to wash it down.  Biting into the slightly stale and icy cold sandwich, Mike couldn't help contemplating the irony of it all.

At this very moment he could have been sitting down on a comfortable Chippendale chair, at a dark mahogany dining table, in the richly appointed partners' dining room on the fifty-second floor of the Franklin Smedley Associates' offices.  Instead of a skinny white bread sandwich with icy cold, wilted lettuce and a strange plastic taste, Mike could have been dining on pâté of duck appetizer, medium rare medallions of veal in truffle sauce, and a glass of chilled Chardonnay from Chateau Ste. Michelle, a favorite of Mike's from the eastern half of Washington State.

Oh, well, thought Mike, as the image of a civilized lunch dissolved to gray, food is food.  He bit down on the plastic-tasting sandwich.

1993: Missing In Action

0730 Hours: Friday, June 11, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.

"Have you checked all the later flights from Minneapolis?" said Smith to the young, dark haired woman standing before him.  "Maybe the Seattle flight was delayed and he caught a later Washington flight."

A recent recruit to CSAC, Joyce Ellington had graduated from the University of Denver with a degree in English literature.  Spy novels had always been her favorite spare time reading.  Knowing that she was in an agency whose existence was unknown to the world was a real high, the answer to her youthful dreams.

With long black hair, light green eyes, a slim figure, and five foot height, she could still pass for a high school student or younger.  Having graduated Phi Beta Kappa, she was generally regarded as an up and coming analyst.  She wore cotton dresses in soft pastel colors, which further enhanced her overall youthful appearance.

"George, we haven't heard from Richard Winslow since he left SeaTac yesterday morning.  He was encoded at the Naval Air Station in Bellingham, Washington, and was placed on Northwest Flight 8 to Minneapolis/St. Paul, which we know arrived on time at 4:48 p.m. Central Daylight Savings Time.  His flight to Washington was scheduled for departure at 6:05 p.m.  Even if Winslow had to go from the Gold Concourse to the Green Concourse, he should have had ample time to make the grand tour."

"The grand tour?"

"The Minneapolis/St. Paul Airport is laid out in a rough 'H' with the main terminal at the center of the 'H.'  Two of the legs of the 'H' wrap around slightly and extend for some distance in a parallel fashion, bracketing the parking garage which is located in the center of the airport.  The distance between these two concourses, the Green and the Gold, can make life hell for a passenger, if he has to go from the end of the Gold to the end of the Green -- the grand tour."

"Wish I hadn't asked," said Smith with a thin smile.  "What about Winslow?"

"We don't know.  It looks like the earth opened up and swallowed him."

"Say, I know what.  Let me call my old friend, Herb Adams," said Smith, picking up his telephone and punching in the telephone number of the FBI field office in Minneapolis.

Herb Adams, the special agent in charge of the Federal Bureau of Investigation's Minneapolis/St. Paul field office, was a friend of Smith's from his FBI days.  Six foot six inches tall, Adams still retained the powerful build from his college days as a fullback on the University of Nebraska football team.  He was one of the Bureau's highest ranking black agents.  Unlike more ambitious agents, Adams did not view his assignment to the Northland as being exiled to Siberia.

Most agents wanted to be in high visibility field offices such as New York, Atlanta, or Los Angeles.  Adams, in contrast, felt that his abilities would shine through no matter where he was and that the rather sleepy pace of the twin cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul was just about right.

Even though he had known Smith for over twenty years, Adams still did not know the true nature of his friend's occupation.  As far as Adams knew, Smith had left the Bureau about twelve years ago, when they were still earning their stripes, to become a security official with the State Department, unexpectedly.  Adams had thought at the time that Smith's move was odd -- to leave a high-profile job as an FBI agent to become a faceless bureaucrat at the State Department.  Shortly thereafter Smith had resigned from State to become an independent security consultant.

Although Adams thought it was curious that Smith had taken that path, he was pleased that his old friend seemed to be happy and prospering as an outside consultant.  Adams had always found it funny, though, that Smith never talked business from the day he left the Bureau -- even when he was on his own as an independent consultant.  It was unlike the gregarious Smith he had known while they were struggling as young special agents.  Even though they didn't get together as often as they did when they were both in the Bureau, Adams always enjoyed his telephone chats with Smith.

When he heard that his friend was on the telephone, Adams dropped what he was doing to take the call.

"Hey, George, how've you been?"

Adams absentmindedly picked up the scuffed and well-worn leather football that had been sitting on his credenza.  It was a memento from his University of Nebraska football days.  He had made the winning touchdown in a close game with Notre Dame and had received the game ball for his efforts.  On it were inscribed all of his classmates' signatures; some of whom had moved into the major leagues and were now big-time players.  Herb always loved to hold that football when he was speaking on non-official business; it was like a talisman that the world was a much nicer place than what he saw in the course of his normal activities.

"Great, Herb.  How have you been?"

"Nancy is looking at colleges; she may want to go east.  Both Beth and I are really excited, but I've got to tell you, I'm too young to have someone in college."

"I know how you feel.  When Charlie went to the University of Virginia this fall, his mom and I cried."

"How is Adele?  Is her shop in Georgetown doing okay?"

"Adele's doing great, her shop had some shaky times at the start, but it's been going great guns since May.  But that's not why I called."

"Oh?"

Herb replaced the football on to his credenza and sat upright in his seat.

"You know that I've been working as an outside consultant to the State Department."

"Yeah."

"One of my jobs is to help them maintain a network of special couriers for sending messages and packages internally around the continental United States."

There was a pause at the end of the line.

"I didn't know that State used special couriers internally."

"As you can imagine, it isn't publicized for obvious public relations reasons, but you can imagine that certain messages just cannot be sent over public telephone lines, by mail, or by Federal Express."

"I suppose so," Adams said; he was all business.  "I guess that's why the State job was so interesting.  How can this simple special agent be of help?"

"I'll be blunt.  One of our couriers didn't show up at the appointed time and place.  We think that something happened to him.  Herb, this has to be handled with kid gloves.  You can't file a field report on this."

"I understand.  What information can you give me?"

"His name is Richard Winslow from Seattle, Washington.  He was on Northwest Flight 8 from Seattle, Washington, this morning and arrived in Minneapolis/St. Paul about 5:00 p.m.  He was supposed to transfer to Northwest Flight 376 for Washington's National Airport, scheduled to take off at 6:05 p.m.  He never boarded that flight."

"Maybe he just decided to take a later flight."

"For reasons I can't discuss, these messengers are not the kind that would deviate from the schedule.  Besides, if I told you, I'd have to kill you," said Smith, trying to joke his way out of an awkward moment.

Adams did not appreciate the humor.  Smith was not the type to tell jokes, or lies.  And when he tried, it was obvious.

Adams paused for a moment.  "What I can do is search InfoNet for possible leads such as hospitals, morgues, or other places where missing people show up.  We can also put out a missing persons report on Richard Winslow on InfoNet."

"Great.  Say hi to Beth for me," said Smith.  He returned the telephone to its cradle and looked up at Joyce, who had been waiting patiently.  "If anyone can find out what happened to Winslow, Herb Adams can."

On the other end of the line, Adams sat quietly taking in what had just happened.  He then dialed for his assistant.

1630 Hours: Friday, June 11, 1993: Newport News Naval Station, Virginia

The Navy UH-1N Huey hovered in the air about ten feet above the landing zone.  In an instant, the helicopter touched down with a jolt.  A tall, thin, erect, white-haired gentleman in dress whites stood waiting for Mike next to a light gray sedan.  Next to him stood a Marine lance corporal at parade rest.  On the right front fender of the sedan was a small blue flag with two white stars.  Even with sunglasses, the familiar features of Rear Admiral Robert McHugh were easily discernible.  Mike was glad to see his old friend.

As the rotors of the helicopter glided to a gentle idle, Mike jumped out and, with his head held low, hurried toward Rear Admiral McHugh.

McHugh grinned broadly as he shook the hand of his old friend.  "Welcome, Mike.  It's not every day the U. S. Navy gets to welcome a Wall Street bigwig.  Sorry about the rather unruly reception you had at NAVFAC."

He then returned a salute from Chief Petty Officer Margaret Marston.  "I see you got your man, Chief."

"Admiral, it's always a pleasure to see you," said Mike.  "It's been almost five years.  How's Gladys?  Why the formal greeting?"  Mike knew how much McHugh hated the pomp and circumstance that went with his position.

"Had to, hate this stuff, you know.  But the base commander's wife wanted a party."  McHugh shrugged.  "That's the reason for the get-up, Gladys and I have to go over there for a cocktail reception at 7:00 p.m.  She wondered if you can come over later for coffee, after you've checked in at the BOQ."

"I'd love to."

McHugh and Mike got into the gray sedan.  Mike was grateful that the sedan was nicely cool, given the oppressive heat of the afternoon Virginia sun.

After the two friends had settled down, Mike said, "What do you make of this, Bob?  Things are getting out of hand; you can't even go for a ride down a country road without being hassled."

McHugh nodded.  "One of our couriers, Mildred Swensen, was also attacked -- we're not sure if it was related to this current mission or if somebody made her from previous assignments.  Another courier hasn't checked-in, we're trying to get a fix on his whereabouts.  The courier from Watch Station One was only able to fly military, bumming a ride on an Orion which flew him to Andrews Air Force Base, where his wife picked him up and took him to headquarters.  His cylinder was extracted and sent to Laurel for decoding."

"Is Mildred okay?"

"She's a tough old bird.  It seems some thirtyish female decided to add to her trophy collection.  Luckily, all those silver bangles Mildred wears got tangled in the garrote and saved her life.  Mildred was able to jab her knitting needle into the assailant and that's all it took.  Gives new meaning to the phrase, 'keep to your own knitting,' doesn't it?" McHugh chuckled at his attempt at black humor.

Mike smiled appreciatively.  "Does this mean that we have a leak?  Someone sure does seem to know when and where our agents are showing up."

0530 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Bethesda, Maryland

Awakened, Smith picked up the ringing telephone.  It was Adams.

"I've got some bad news for you.  It appears that your Richard Winslow kept some pretty rough company.  He's dead."

"What happened?"

"The Minnesota State Police headquarters in Mankato, Minnesota, responded to our InfoNet missing person's bulletin on Winslow.  It seems that there was a rather spectacular house fire at a farm south of Mankato last night.  It required volunteer fire companies from several communities to put it out.  When the fire was finally put out, the firemen found a grisly scene.  In the kitchen, they found a corpse burned so badly that they couldn't even tell at first whether it was male or female.

"The firemen secured the area and called in the State Police to conduct arson and homicide investigations.  The homicide investigator was able to find a portion of a Washington State driver's license that had a partial name '...inslow' that somehow survived the intense fire.  The State Police homicide investigator checked the InfoNet missing persons list and thought that we should be notified."

"Where's the body?"

"Mankato still has a county coroner system.  The body was taken to a funeral home in Mankato, Tuchman Brothers."