The Fugitive's Trail (23 page)

He smiled. “Not long. Just a couple of hours.”

“Liar.”

He was silent waiting for her to be more alert.

“Did you get him?”

JR shook his head. “No.”

She closed her eyes again and was silent for a minute. “This isn’t going to be over until you kill him, JR.”

JR frowned. “What do you mean?”

“JR—listen to me. He’s not going to give up. He told me everything. He wouldn’t stop talking. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. Once he forces you to tell him where the money is, he’ll kill you.”

JR nodded. “Are you going to be okay?”

She smiled weakly. “As long as you’re with me, I will be.” Her eye’s closed again and within thirty seconds her breathing became soft and rhythmic.

JR held her hand for a few more minutes. He stared at her, released her hand, and stood. “I’ll never leave you, Mia.” He got up and walked out of the room to find Kruger.

He was asleep in the waiting area down the hall from Mia’s room. JR sat down beside him and waited. Several moments later, Kruger opened an eye. “Well, how is she?”

“She’ll make it.”

Kruger nodded and sat up straighter in the lounge chair. “Weber may not know Crigler’s dead. I’m betting Plymel will try to find you through Weber.”

JR nodded.

“You need to get on the computer and use your skills to find him.”

JR didn’t say anything and just stared at Kruger. Finally he said, “Yeah… You’re right. Will you give me a ride?”

***

It was nine in the morning when JR said, “Sean, I think I’ve found him.”

Kruger had been dozing on a sofa in JR’s computer room. He hurried over to the computer JR was staring at. “What’ve you got?”

JR pointed to the computer screen. It showed a security camera shot of a man at a ticket counter. “He’s shaved his hair and the glasses are gone, but it’s him.”

“Where is this?”

“JFK International, American Airlines ticket counter.” JR looked at the time stamp on the video. “Seven fifty-three last night.”

Kruger stared at the picture and was silent for a moment. Finally he said, “Can you tell where he went?”

JR shook his head. “This is the only shot the TSI system has of him. I’ve checked. He must not be flying under his real name.” JR looked up at Kruger. “Weber didn’t know Crigler was dead when I spoke to him yesterday. Do you think Plymel will try to contact Weber?”

Kruger shook his head. “Don’t know. Unless…” He stopped in mid-sentence, took his cell phone, and made a call. It was answered on the third ring.

“Alvarez.”

“Preston, it’s Kruger. Did Crigler have a cell phone on him when he was found?”

“Good question. Let me check.”

Kruger held the phone to his ear as he waited. Two minutes later, Alvarez said, “Nope. His wallet was missing too. We think Plymel was trying to make it look like a robbery. Do you know something I don’t?”

“Not yet. Thanks for the info. I’ll call you later.” Kruger ended the call and turned to JR. “We have to assume Plymel has Crigler’s cell phone.” Walking to a window in the computer room, Kruger stared out. He was quiet for several minutes, his finger tapping his lips. Finally he said, “American Airlines planes landing at Springfield originate from either Dallas or Chicago. Can you check to see if any recent passengers connected from JFK through either city?”

JR smiled and nodded. “I should have thought of that.”

Even though JR was already in the American Airlines system, it took over an hour to compare the passenger manifests for flights the prior evening. Finally, he said, “We have five names; two are female, one is under ten years old, and two adult males.”

Kruger had walked back into the computer room with a cup of coffee. “What about the males?”

Looking up from the computer with a smile, JR said, “Brian Griggs, age twenty-four.” He paused, his grin growing larger. “And Alexei Kozlov, age fifty-eight, JFK to LA International, connected with a red-eye flight into Dallas. Kozlov was on a nine a.m. flight from Dallas to Springfield. It landed about twenty minutes ago.”

“That’s him.”

Nodding, JR’s fingers danced on the keyboard. Five minutes later, they heard a ping as JR’s facial recognition software found a match for the picture taken at JFK. Staring at the screen, he pointed at an older man walking through the security exit. “Bingo, there he is.”

Kruger bent over and stared at the picture on the laptop. “Welcome to Springfield, Mr. Alexei Kozlov.”

Branson, MO

Adam Weber sat inside Waxy O’Shea’s Irish Pub, just off the Main Street entrance to the Branson Landing. The small two-person table had a clear view of both the breezeway leading into the outdoor mall and the intersection of Main Street and Branson Landing Boulevard. The Branson Scenic Railway station could also be observed across the street. The Hilton Convention Center was partially hidden west of the train station, but from Weber’s viewpoint, he could see cars entering the circle drive of the hotel. The last message from Crigler had instructed him to wait in the breezeway and wait for a black Ford Explorer to pick him up.

He trusted Alton Crigler, to a point, but alarm bells were ringing concerning the method he was using to communicate. Text messages only, no conversation over the phone. When asked why, Crigler had simply sent a message explaining text messages were harder to trace and voiceprints could not be used to identify the callers. While it made sense, it also raised a few questions about who was actually communicating with him. The other question he needed answered was why Crigler was in Missouri. There had never been a discussion about his joining Weber. The only explanation he had been given was vague at best—something about wanting to assist with finding the fugitive. Another reason Weber was being overly cautious.

He had arrived an hour before the rendezvous, and it was now an hour after the appointed time. During the entire two hours, not one black Ford Explorer had passed through the intersection, nor had he seen anyone remotely resembling Crigler. He paid for his beer and sandwich, glanced around the pub to see if anyone was paying too much attention. Seeing no one with an elevated interest, he exited the pub. Outside, Weber turned right and walked east on the breezeway to the main avenue of the outdoor mall. While the peak tourist season was almost over, the mall was still crowded with shoppers and sightseers.

He had abandoned the Fusion in a Walmart parking lot in Branson West the night before. He’d walked to a Walgreens across the street and called a taxi, which had taken him to the Branson Landing area. Last night had been spent at the Hilton, directly across the street. Now it was midafternoon the following day and the tourist traffic was heavy. At the intersection of the breezeway and the main thoroughfare of the mall, Weber stood and watched the crowd. Just as he decided to return to his hotel room, he sensed someone behind him. He started to turn his head when a voice behind him said, “Don’t turn around. There’s a black Explorer parked in the Hilton’s circle drive. Turn around slowly and let’s start walking that way.”

“What if I don’t?”

“You’ll get a hollow point twenty-two slug in your spine.”

Weber nodded, turned around, and started walking back toward the crosswalk at the mall entrance. “Where’s Crigler?”

“I’m afraid Alton will not be joining us today.”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Very.”

Weber nodded and stopped at the crosswalk to wait for the light to turn green. “Nice explanation about the text messages. I actually bought it. Once we get to the car, what’s your plan, Plymel?”

“Alas, Abel Plymel doesn’t exist anymore; he’s as dead as Alton Crigler.”

The walk across Branson Landing Boulevard and up Main Street to the Hilton circle drive only took three minutes. Weber’s eyes darted from left to right, searching for an escape opportunity, but nothing he saw offered much of an opening. When they arrived at the Explorer, Kozlov said, “The vehicle is unlocked. Get in the driver’s seat.” Weber did as he was told, while the other man slipped into the rear passenger compartment. The gun was still pointed at Weber when he looked in the rearview mirror. This was his first opportunity to see his captor. Kozlov’s face was gaunt, the combed-back hair gone, as were the glasses. But the eyes were the same: crystal blue and cold.

Weber was silent, thinking through his odds. After a few moments, he said, “I know where the man you’re looking for is located.”

“You mentioned that in your messages. Where is he?”

“If I tell you, what’s in it for me?”

“You know, that’s what I love about this country, everything’s for sale. Take for instance this Ruger twenty-two. I bought it this morning at a pawnshop. At first he wouldn’t sell it to me, but when I offered him two-thousand dollars, he threw in a suppressor, subsonic ammunition, and didn’t even ask my name.”

Weber adjusted the rearview mirror so that he could see the man in back better. The gun was pointing directly at his head. “You don’t have to point that at me, you know.”

“For the moment, I do. Start the car and drive toward Springfield. I assume that’s where the man with my money is located?”

Weber started the Ford SUV and backed out of the angled parking slot. He turned right onto Main Street and drove the short distance to the stoplight. When the light turned green, he turned left on Branson Landing Boulevard and accelerated toward the north. “Crigler was paying me to find the fugitive, learn the location of the money, and then kill him.”

Kozlov stared at Weber, but remained quiet.

With a faint smile, Weber said, “He didn’t want you to find the guy and get your money back.”

Kozlov remained quiet for several more moments. Finally he said, “That didn’t work out so well for Crigler, did it?”

Weber shook his head. “Guess not. I know the name of the man who took your money. I also know where he lives. How much is that worth to you?”

“You’re in no position to bargain?”

Weber shrugged. “You kill me and you’ll never find him. He hid his trail perfectly. I know how to find missing people and I only found him by accident.”

Weber accelerated the Explorer as he merged onto North Highway 65. Ten seconds later, he saw a sign on the shoulder of the highway. Springfield was thirty-five miles ahead. He put the Ford on cruise control. “Even if you find him, he has five military types guarding him. I had to kidnap his girlfriend to get close to him.”

Kozlov remained quiet.

“We’re in a position to help each other, you know. By the way, you said Abel Plymel is dead. What are you calling yourself now?”

“It’s not important.” Kozlov briefly stared ahead at the highway. He was silent for awhile. “Tell me, how do you think we can help each other?”

“You need to find this guy and I need money to get out of here. It’s simple. You pay me, I give you the information, and then I disappear.”

“So, how much do you think this information is worth?”

“Oh, let’s say a million dollars—give or take a few hundred thousand.”

Kozlov laughed. “You’re not in a position to demand a sum that large.”

“Okay, I had to give it a shot. Crigler was going to pay me a hundred thousand.”

“I’ll give you fifty thousand—no more.”

Weber knew he would be lucky to get out of this alive, let alone get paid. He just needed some time to think of an escape plan. “How do I know when I tell you the information you won’t shoot me?”

“You don’t—you’ll have to trust me.”

Weber shook his head. “That’s not in my best interest. We’re going to have to work this out before I tell you anything.”

“There’s nothing to work out. You tell me and I don’t shoot you.”

Weber laughed. “Do you plan to shoot me while we’re driving sixty-five miles an hour?”

His answer was silence.

***

Kruger waited for Preston Alvarez to come to the phone. Finally, after being transferred six times, he heard, “Alvarez.”

“I thought you had a cell phone?”

“I do, but unlike you, I have to work in a concrete jungle. The cell phone reception sucks in this building.”

Kruger chuckled. “I got your message. What’s up?”

“We found something very interesting in Plymel’s apartment.”

Kruger was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Yeah, what did you find?”

“Airline ticket stubs to Russia, originating in New York and Toronto. Not one or two, but dozens, dating back to the early eighties. They were hidden in a floor safe, along with several empty fireproof boxes.”

“Let me guess, the name on the tickets is Alexei Kozlov.”

Now it was Alvarez’s turn to be silent. Finally he said, “What do you know that I don’t?”

“One of my associates just identified Plymel arriving here in Springfield last night. He was flying under the name Alexei Kozlov. Apparently, it’s an old alias. We also found out there’s a problem with his resume prior to 1981.”

“What problems?”

“Well for one, the college he claims his degree is from has no record of his attendance. There are no contributions to Social Security prior to 1981, and now we find out he’s been traveling to Russia as Alexei Kozlov.”

“Oh boy. What have we got here, Sean?”

“Well, if he was a Muslim, I’d say we have a terrorist on our hands. But that far back, he just might have been a sleeper agent for the Soviet Union. An agent who decided to stay here and earn a small fortune after the wall fell down.”

“Why weren’t we notified about this guy?”

“I had the same question, but it was a long time ago. Computers were in their infancy and records were probably misplaced on purpose. A lot of those guys probably just slipped through the cracks. But, if that’s who he is, we have a bigger problem than we originally thought.”

***

“What did you find out about our mystery man, Mary?” Joseph said as he stepped into an empty bedroom of JR’s apartment after taking the phone call.              

“My dear Joseph, have I ever disappointed you?”

“No, my love. You never have.”

“It seems our Mr. Plymel had a deal worked out with the CIA. He could stay here and make as much money as he wanted.” She paused for a few moments. When Joseph didn’t say anything, she continued, “He was allowed to stay as long as he passed bogus information to his Russian handlers. He was protected, Joseph—nothing more and nothing less.”

Joseph stared out one of the bedroom windows, saying nothing.

“Alexi Kozlov is his real name. The agency allowed him to freely travel back and forth to Europe using his Russian-issued passport. The only stipulation was he had to report trips three weeks in advance.

Joseph closed his eyes; he backed up and sat down on the bed in the room. “Go on.”

“His official file calls him, and I quote, ‘Narcissistic, extremely volatile, and possibly dangerous to those he encounters. He is to be watched and monitored. Personal contact is to be handled with care and extreme caution.’ This is a notation in his official file after the fall of the Soviet Union.” She was quiet for a second. “Let’s see, the notation is dated November 14, 1992.”

Joseph sighed. “Does it say who his case officer was?”

“Yes, it does. Is it important?”

“Yes, it is. Tell me.”

“I know most of these guys had synonyms. Let me see. Okay here it is. The name is Charlie Rose. Do you know him?”

Joseph was silent. He leaned over and supported his head with the palm of his hand, his elbow on his knee.

“Joseph, are you there? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Do you know who Charlie Rose was?”

“Yes, I know who Charlie Rose was. I was Charlie Rose.”