Surly Bonds

by Michael Byars Lewis

  RRRIIINNG!

  Jason leaped at the sound that shattered the silence. The phone rang again. Jason started to answer but paused. What would he say? What if it was family? How could he tell them Lenny died today? They must not know, right? Otherwise, why would they call his room? The phone rang two more times. Another sound filled the room as the answering machine buzzed and whirled to life.

  “Hello? Hello? Speak louder, I can’t hear you,” came the message out of the machine, an eerie voice from beyond. “Of course, I can’t hear anything because I can’t come to the phone right now. Leave your name and number and maybe I’ll call you back.” BEEEP!

  The message ended. After a pause, the caller hung up the phone. Saved by an answering machine. Jason felt more relieved than guilty. He felt uneasy with the numerous pictures of Lenny Banks stared at him from around the room. Lenny with his dad. Lenny’s first solo. Lenny with a college sweetheart. Lenny’s graduation. Lenny’s commissioning. Jason didn’t like the feeling. The pictures came down next.

  He turned on the television for background noise and removed everything from the walls, stacking them into neat piles. It didn’t take long. Moving to the desk, he gathered all of Lenny’s papers and placed them in neat piles. He sifted through each of the drawers, emptied them, and stacked its contents on top of the desk. The bottom drawer lay empty except for two large manila envelopes, heavy with papers. As he lifted it, the contents shifted in the package and fell to the floor. Jason’s eyes bulged.

  Money fell everywhere. A lot of money. Hundred, fifty, and twenty-dollar bills. Shocked, Jason collected the money and counted eight-thousand dollars. A significant amount of cash, especially for a second lieutenant. What would Lenny be doing with that kind of money? Jason thought for a moment. Lenny gambled occasionally, but if he ever won, he bragged for days. There had been no bragging for a month.

  When he glanced back in the drawer, he saw another manila envelope. Jason grabbed the stuffed package. He unlatched the thin metal clasp and pulled out the papers.

  “Uh-oh,” he said out loud as he read the top page. Jason recognized the paper. The first page he saw, he identified as the Instrument Flight Rules test. A test they would take next week. He flipped through the next few pages, he found other versions of the same test. In UPT, there were four different versions of every test, and Jason had in his hands all four versions of the next test.

  Jason’s eyes wandered around the empty room as he contemplated his next action. He needed to tell someone, but who? Locking the door to the room, he sat on the couch and checked the stack of papers.

  “Wow, this is bad,” he said after five minutes of organizing the tests. His tone wasn’t one of joy, but of concern. On the floor in front of him, a copy of every version of every test in the T-37, T-38, T-1, and the stan/eval Master Question File for all three jets.

  Jason perspired as the consequences of his discovery sank in. He had, in front of him, the secret to success in the program. With this information in his possession it would relieve him—

  “Wait a minute!” he said to no one. “Where the hell did these come from in the first place?”

  Jason noticed the ink on the paper smeared easily, indicating a computer ink jet printer. Lenny’s ink jet printer. The bottom of each page had the date the tests were downloaded. It was only a few days ago. They also said Randolph Air Force Base.

  Lenny stole the tests with his computer. He somehow tapped into the computer mainframe and took the tests right out from under their noses. Maybe that’s why he never studied. Jason realized that while he spent most of his spare time with his nose in the books, Lenny never studied much at all.

  And neither did Vince.

  That could explain the money. Vince always had a lot of cash to throw around. He had the nicest clothes, and always bought drinks and dinner for everyone.

  That had to be it.

  Lenny must have sold copies of the tests to Vince. No wonder they always fought about something. Vince treated Lenny like dirt, then Lenny would hold some secret in front of his face and Vince would back off. The situation started to make sense now.

  Jason wondered about his two classmates. Two classmates he considered friends. These two were not what they appeared to be. Lenny acted as if he didn’t care about pilot training, despite the fact he flew quite well.

  Vince, however, seemed to care too much. The overzealous type, he always tried to be the best, always tried to make friends with everyone . . . particularly his instructors. Vince also flew quite well. In fact, he was arguably the best stick in the class, but it was obvious to anyone who paid attention, his general knowledge was weak. He was a mystery, but perhaps a mystery no longer. Jason concluded his classmate, Vince Andrews, could not be trusted.

  But what about Lenny? He’s a bona-fide thief. As an officer, Jason had an obligation to report this. But what good would it do? Lenny was dead and there was nothing the Air Force could do to him. It would just be one more scar on the military services after years of embarrassments. Then, there was Lenny’s family. How would such news affect them? Jason reached over to the stack of pictures and picked up the one on top—Lenny and his dad standing in front of a Cessna 172 after Lenny’s first solo ride. Father and son, grinning from ear to ear. Lenny was close to his dad. Jason knew he couldn’t destroy such a bond.

  He took the tests and cash from Lenny’s place and returned to his own room. It was a pleasant change from the cold, somber atmosphere of his dead friend’s quarters. Sitting on the edge of his bed, Jason turned on his television with his remote. With nothing on television worth watching, he settled for CNN. The big story of the day, his father, Senator Jonathan Bowman would be in San Antonio next week.

  He stared at the two packages in his hands, Jason thought about his options. He should go to Gus right away, but it was late. They’d be showing for an academic class in the morning during first period and Jason had a sim second period. All flying had been cancelled for the time being, until the safety investigation discovered the cause of the crash.

  Going to Gus, the flight commander, or anyone for that matter, would result in the same thing. Lenny Banks would be exposed. Lenny’s family would be grieving enough, already. There was no reason for them to find out he was a thief and possibly an embezzler. It may not have been the best decision, but it was the right decision. Now what? He had possession of stolen tests and a whole lot of cash that most likely belonged to someone else. And absolutely no idea what to do with it.

  Jason watched with enthusiasm the story on his father. He grinned at the thought of the scene in the classic film, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life,’ where an adolescent George Bailey contemplates what to do when he discovers his boss, Mister Gower, had accidentally put poison in some capsules for a customer. George sees a sign in the store that recommended going to dad for advice.

  Dad would know what to do. If only I could contact him.

  He placed the money and tests in his bottom drawer, crawled under his blanket, and fell asleep.

  31

  September 7, 1995

  * * *

  AARON CALDWELL STOOD IN THE CROWDED terminal at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport. The early morning sun poked its head above the horizon, its rays penetrated the glass walls and cast a yellowish hue across the lobby. Caldwell took his position next to the ticket counter. As the chief of the CIA’s Moscow division, he had an interest in former KGB members who traveled abroad, especially when one of them was the head of Section Nine, en-route to the United States. Caldwell realized the consequences could be deadly.

  The difficult part? Determine which route he would take to America. Caldwell guessed his prey would travel to New York or Washington, via Frankfurt, Germany. The other direction, through Shanghai or Tokyo, would cause Nikolai Gregarin to stand out too much. Caldwell watched the glass doors from his position while his men covered every possible entrance. The small radio receiver in his ear crackled and he adjusted the volume.

  The non-descr
ipt black sedan pulled in front of the terminal. Nikolai Gregarin stepped from the back seat as the driver retrieved his bags from the trunk. Nikolai took the two bags and entered the terminal through the sliding glass doors.

  “Main entrance,” Caldwell heard over the radio. “Dark gray, double-breasted overcoat, wing-tip collar. Two bags. Headed for the gates, not the ticket counter. Repeat, headed for the gates, not the ticket counter.”

  Caldwell scanned the crowd; to spot anyone who fit that description. He would rely on his men at the gates to spot Nikolai. Caldwell remained in his position in case he needed a ticket to take a different flight. A hundred dollars American to the pudgy ticket agent ensured him easy access to another ticket on a moment’s notice.

  The CIA had the advantage in this situation. As far as the Americans knew, the fact Section Nine had been compromised was still unknown to the Russians. They believed it to be their secret society where activities continued unnoticed by the rest of the world. For the most part, they were, except for Nikolai. The CIA monitored his actions. If he made a trip to America, Caldwell had an idea why.

  “He’s heading for the john,” said a voice over the interphone. The tiny earpiece fit comfortably in Caldwell’s ear, undetectable at a distance. Caldwell picked up his carry-on bag and walked toward the restroom. The crowd in the terminal thinned as the passengers from the latest arrival left the terminal.

  Caldwell noticed the figure walk into the restroom, but never got a good look at his face. He moved back to his position and kept his eyes on the restroom door. For the next ten minutes, several men went in and out. Businessmen, tourists, pilots, fathers and children, but no Nikolai.

  He glanced at his watch. Nikolai stayed in the bathroom for over fifteen minutes. His eyes locked with one of his men across the terminal. The man shrugged his shoulders. Caldwell nodded his head in the direction of the bathroom, and the man stood from his chair and walked across the marble floor to the bathroom. As he searched the crowd, the CIA chief began to worry his prey might have slipped his grasp.

  Twenty seconds later, his suspicions proved correct. Nikolai was gone.

  PALOVICH AWOKE SHIVERING, his clothes wet and tattered. He hadn’t eaten anything for a day and a half. The morning light revealed what was unseen the night before. The men who gathered around the blazing fire in the deserted lot resembled him. Thirty to sixty years of age, worn-out clothes, the look of despair . . . men without hope, trying to keep warm.

  He had been on the run for over two days now. Who were the two killers who approached his apartment? Could Viktor have sent them? Surely not. He drove Viktor for years. It had to be that little bastard, Nikolai. He always did Viktor’s dirty work. Palovich found it difficult to believe Viktor would send them. Viktor would never be convinced Palovich was a traitor. They had been friends too long. When Viktor found out what was happening, he would call it off. If he found out.

  His thoughts turned to food. Palovich rose to his feet and stretched away the morning stiffness of his muscles. He must find food. Brushing at the dampness of his soiled clothes, the melted snow soaked his jacket and pants. The lump of cash on the inside of his pocket made him confident he could buy food and new clothes.

  The marketplace. Head for the marketplace. The vendors there specialized in things not found in the stores. Expensive items best paid for with foreign currency. American currency.

  Palovich stood by the fire, shivering. One by one, the ragged figures left the warmth of the fire and moved on to their daily routines of begging, drinking, and stealing. Now, he too, abandoned the comfort of the warm fire and began his trek through the streets of Moscow toward the marketplace.

  The rumble in his stomach grew louder with each step, the sound echoed in his ears. Food was a must at this point. He was far too old to evade killers through the chilly streets on an empty stomach. Palovich felt safer now. The would-be assassins would search for him somewhere else, first. His sister’s house perhaps, or the homes of friends. All these places he avoided. It was a deadly game, but he would learn quickly. He had to, or he would die.

  As he reached the marketplace, the smell of fresh-baked bread wafted toward him and caused his stomach to growl voraciously. He didn’t dash for the vendor, however; he would be cautious. To survive, he must be smart and not draw attention to himself. He stopped thirty meters from the entrance and stood in the shadow of an apartment-house entranceway. Palovich ran his fingers through his hair, pulled his collar around his neck, and brushed off bits of ice stuck to his clothes. Now was not the time to appear as a beggar. Reaching in his pocket, he retrieved several bills. He had many hundred-dollar bills, but to reveal this amount of money in the marketplace would bring suspicion and thieves. Palovich separated several of the bills in his hand and stuffed them in his coat. The rest of the bills he placed back in his pants pocket.

  He was as ready to go as he would ever be. Palovich left the temporary sanctuary and moved toward the marketplace. The activity in the marketplace was overwhelming. The market was where the real money was made in Moscow. Hundreds of street vendors sold everything from food to passports to sex. If it could be bought or sold, you could find it here. The marketplace covered three full city blocks; thousands of souls wandered about, on a search to find what they wanted or needed. Vehicle traffic was no longer an option through the area unless you were a vendor.

  Ten American dollars got him a quarter of a loaf of bread and a sizable wedge of cheese. Palovich devoured it as he walked through the crowd. He purchased a cup of hot tea and sat on a stool. The warm liquid rushed down his throat and slowly brought his body back to life. His joints still ached; his back sore from sleeping on the ground. After a second glass of tea, he decided he should find new clothes. The assassins, and perhaps the rest of the Russian army, would be after him now, searching for a man in a gray coat.

  Within five minutes, Palovich found a suitable vendor. He waited until the other customers left to approach him. The vendor, a slender man with a long, thin nose, was dressed for the chilly weather. He stood in front of a tent next to a table covered with assorted articles of clothing. The clothes on the table were cheap, but they were there simply for advertising. Palovich knew the real merchandise would be in the tent.

  “Ehsty leey oo vahss shtoneeboody eez shehrsty?”

  The thin man beamed with enthusiasm.

  “Do I have any wool? But of course, my friend. I have wool coats, socks, pants, gloves, hats. Whatever one might need, I can get. The question then becomes, can you afford it?”

  The statement fell off his tongue as he studied Palovich’s ragged figure.

  “Fine, I’ll take one of each. The coat, hat, socks, gloves, but not the pants. All in black. And a scarf. I’ll need a scarf.”

  “Just one moment,” the vendor said as he eyed Palovich, taking mental measurements. He turned and disappeared into the tent. Palovich took the opportunity to shift the money from his coat pocket to his pants. In a matter of two minutes, the vendor returned with the items Palovich requested. He slipped off the old gray coat and tried on the new clothes.

  “A perfect fit for you, my friend,” the vendor said.

  “Yes, you’ve done quite well.”

  “So, you wish to purchase these?”

  “Yes.”

  The vendor rested his chin in the crook of his hand as he rubbed the length of his nose with his finger.

  “How do you intend to pay for this?” the vendor said.

  Palovich reached into his pocket, pulled out three American one hundred-dollar bills and handed them to the vendor. That easily covered the going rate for the clothes.

  The vendor’s eyes widened as his mouth fell open. He took the money and held each bill up to the morning sun to make sure they were not counterfeit. The deal made, Palovich walked into the crowd with his new clothes. He left his old coat with the vendor, who would sell it eventually.

  Palovich stopped in front of another vendor, purchased a new pair of pants, a sweater,
and a small backpack. At still another vendor’s shop, he bought more bread, cheese, and sausage. He ate a couple of bites and placed the rest in his backpack. After he found a washroom with warm water, he washed himself and changed his clothes. He emerged back into the marketplace a new man. Finally— warm, well fed, and semi-clean, he was ready to move. Palovich had to formulate a plan, but he needed one more purchase before he left the marketplace.

  He needed to find a gun.

  32

  September 7, 1995

  * * *

  AARON CALDWELL WAS FURIOUS. How could his men have blown such an easy tail? They remained in the airport for two more hours, searching for Nikolai. Where could he be? Where is he going? Who did he plan to see?

  The elusive Nikolai had been a hard man to follow, and today, Caldwell was made a believer. Nikolai, surrounded by Caldwell’s men, had slipped away. The CIA did not know if he was still in the terminal or airborne.

  Caldwell thought Nikolai’s destination lay somewhere in the United States, regardless of where he went prior to that. All the message traffic at the embassy indicated increased activity in Section Nine’s moles stationed in America. There had also been concern about the number of kills or the priority of the targets. He wasn’t sure; the messages weren’t clear. Caldwell was convinced, however, that something serious was going down and Nikolai went to make sure it didn’t get screwed up.

  A loud bell snapped him out of his thoughts as a small cart came through that carried luggage from one of the flights. The sharp ring of the bell echoed throughout the terminal. Caldwell stepped out of the way of the small vehicle driven by an elderly uniformed man. As the cart rolled by, he couldn’t help but stare at the old man. Was he familiar? No, but something about him was. Caldwell thought back to the tail as he stared at the old man.