by Trevor Scott
“No. They can test the chip in an electronic environment and say, Yeah, this is one fast chip, but they still don’t know how we make it so fast. I can’t even tell you that, Jake. Only a handful of people at Teredata know that information.”
“So, Charlie Johnson could be trying to sell something that isn’t his?”
“Right. Charlie doesn’t know enough to really hurt us. But we still can’t allow these chips to be out in the market, because eventually someone could give away the rest of the formula.”
“What next?”
“Find Charlie Johnson,” Milt said. “We need to know who he’s selling out to.”
“Hey, Milt, I have someone shook and willing to blow me away,” Jake said. “Do you want me to push further and see who I can shake from the bushes?”
“Don’t take any extraordinary risks, Jake.”
Jake was used to people asking him to take risks, and sometimes he even took them without being asked. But he didn’t like people taking pot shots at him. “No problem, Milt. I can handle myself.”
“I know. That’s why I hired you.”
There was a pause on the line.
“Give me a call if you find anything,” Milt said.
“Sure.” Jake hung up slowly.
His stomach growled as if on cue to him hanging up. He went to the small bathroom, splashed some water on his face, and then pulled his shirt off over his head and replaced it with a fresh one.
Back out in the main room, he looked at his automatic pistol in its brown leather shoulder holster draped over the back of a chair. Reluctantly, he left it behind.
Downstairs the bar was crowded, a prelude to Fasching, the German equivalent to Mardi Gras. The carved wood faces on the walls stared at Jake as he entered through the door and took a seat at the end of the bar with his back against the wall.
He drank a beer and ordered his meal from the bar. Then, in his best German, he started asking people if they’d seen Charlie Johnson, flashing the man’s personnel photo at each person.
Finally, the owner, Brunner Weiss, motioned for him to have a seat at his table. Weiss was a stout and brusque man with the thick forearms of an ancient seaman. His pipe was notched permanently in the side of his mouth. He ruled over his realm from the family’s corner booth. He never had to say a word. A nod of the head, a crooked pointing finger, or a blink of the eye would send the waitress in the proper direction as if a whip had cracked.
Jake took a seat across from the man, dropping his beer on the oak table. He studied Brunner. “Do you know Charlie Johnson?”
The old man nodded. “Ja, he hasn’t been by in a while.”
“I heard he came here a lot,” Jake said.
Brunner nodded and sucked on his pipe.
“Did he have any friends here?”
The old man shook his head. “No, he sat alone most nights. Once in a while with me. He ate his meal, had a beer and some scotch, and then left. It was common with him. He isn’t a talker.”
Jake stayed in the bar for a few more beers before heading upstairs. But he learned nothing about Charlie Johnson.
●
Gunter Schecht waited outside the Gasthaus for a reply to his license plate inquiry. His cellular phone finally beeped and the woman on the other end informed him that only one car was registered to a rental company, the green VW Passat. “Danke, Gurt,” he said, and then smiled.
Gunter was parked down the alley with only a tunnel vision of the Gasthaus parking lot through overhanging shrubbery and vines. He pulled a small GPS transmitter from the glove box of his Mercedes, felt it over carefully in the darkness, and placed it in his leather coat pocket.
“Let’s go Adolph, time to earn your keep.” Gunter said to his long-haired dachshund that had been sleeping in the passenger’s seat.
He clipped the leash to the dog’s collar and entered the outside darkness for an evening stroll. Only a dim yellow light shone across the small parking lot. When Gunter reached the rear of Jake’s car, he pulled back on the leash and Adolph stopped and sat. Gunter quickly placed the transmitter under the bumper of the VW, and then returned to his car.
“You’re slipping, Jake Adams,” he said softly to himself.
6
USS THEODORE ROOSEVELT
The sea was like a pool of crude oil and the bow cut through in darkness leaving only tranquil, flowing swells in its wake.
Flight operations had subsided for the evening, but a third of the ship’s crew worked on through the night.
Kurt Lamar had left Leo Birdsong below decks with the intention of going to midnight chow. Kurt wanted to check on the Bingo King’s flight records. He knew the Ready Room would be nearly empty by now.
Inside the Ready Room only a young sailor sat reclined in a high-back pilot’s chair on his four-hour fire watch. He didn’t even question Kurt when he came in through the metal hatch as if he owned the place, pulled the flight logs from under the counter, and flipped through them as if he’d been doing it all his life. These logs, like the aircraft manuals, had been computerized years ago, but a second set of hard copies were maintained. Kurt knew these hard files would leave no trace that he’d viewed them.
“So, you’ve got the watch, eh,” Kurt said. “I used to hate this watch. The only thing that kept me awake was reading crotch novels. And then I’d get so horny I’d want to whack the weasel.”
The sailor looked like he was right out of boot camp. He couldn’t have been nineteen.
“I read MAD Magazine,” the sailor said, not even looking up. “The parodies are totally excellent.”
Kurt found what he was looking for. With a quick glance, he memorized all the dates and locations that Lt. Budd, the Bingo King, had flown. Could that be right? He flipped through a few other records. Leo had been right. Lt. Budd did divert a lot. He closed the files and headed toward the hatch.
“Hey, take it easy,” Kurt said as he left.
The sailor just laughed and took a bite from a Snickers bar.
TRIESTE, ITALY
The late evening sky had cleared and the generous stars would have brought tears to Galileo’s eyes. The faint headlights of a lone Fiat Uno sped down the Autostrada and exited at the Porto turn off. The street lights were blinking yellow, taunting the driver to maintain his speed. But the driver knew the Polizia would question the contents of the bag in his trunk, so he slowed his car to the speed limit.
He turned north along the seawall and marina, past the large shipping docks, to the fishing boats in a haggard part of town. He got out, put on a peacoat and a watch cap, and retrieved the bag from the trunk and started walking down the pier. A large rat scurried in front of him. Undaunted, he swung with his right foot to kick it. The rat simply dodged and burrowed under a stack of nets along the edge of the pier.
In the second to last slip, a three-man crew was making last minute preparations to shove off a small fishing boat from its moorings. The man with the bag hopped aboard without skill or grace and entered the small cabin.
The Italian-flagged Bella Donna departed on schedule as it did every morning. It slowly worked its way out of the port and past the break water as did scores of similar fishing boats working the Northern Adriatic waters of Italy and Slovenia. They all left with high hopes and returned with luck for some and barroom stories for others. The conflict of war over the years had hindered but never stopped the age-old fishing life. The only thing that had changed across the water from Italy was the name of the country.
The Bella Donna chugged slowly through the darkness, and the smooth water barely rippled past its stern. The sun was still a few hours away from appearing over the limestone hills. After about fifty minutes, the engine stopped and the inertia with it. The boat slackened to a halt and rocked for a minute before standing nearly dead in the water.
Within a few minutes, the red and green running lights of another fishing boat approached the Bella Donna from the southeast. Its engines slowed and it gingerly slid by within thr
ee feet. The man with the bag timed his jump just right, but landed wrong in the Slovenian-flagged fishing boat, and twisted his ankle, falling to the wooden deck in a bundle and with profuse swearing.
The Bella Donna continued on to its fishing waters. The Slovenian boat picked up speed and began its return trip to the port of Koper, Slovenia.
GENOA, ITALY
The large carrier came to a tired halt and dropped both anchors nearly a mile from the city of Genoa.
A few hours later, a small backpack over his shoulder, Kurt got onto a liberty launch and went ashore.
Once ashore, Kurt found the nearest cab, a yellow Fiat. “Parlare Inglese?” he asked the driver.
“Si, a little,” the cabby said. “Where you go?”
“Christopher Columbus statue,” Kurt said.
The cab jerked away from the curb and the cabby quickly flipped through the gears. Kurt wanted to tell the driver in his most pure Italian that he’d like to leave Italy in one piece.
He gazed at palm-lined boulevards passing by. The parks and gardens were more green than he remembered from his last stop here.
The cab weaved in and out of traffic at a relentless pace. Kurt found himself holding on tightly to the door’s arm rest and wondering why he hadn’t remembered the crazy drivers.
The cab pulled up across the street from the statue of Genoa’s hero and America’s discoverer. Kurt paid the man and headed for the closest espresso bar. The streets were crowded with Saturday drivers, the sidewalks lined with afternoon shoppers. The sun was as high and bright as it could possibly be for that time of year. Kurt wished he had brought sunglasses. The night shift had sensitized his eyes to light.
The sun had also warmed Genoa to nearly forty-five degrees. Kurt sat at an outside table with coffee. He was nearly a half-hour early. It would give him time to observe the area, think, and develop his plan of action.
He tried to remember every word his boss had told him. His only written instructions were in case of a dire emergency; he would hand them over to the commanding officer. Even those instructions were ambiguous. They consisted only of a name and a number in the Washington, D.C. area, but looked official with the government seal. Kurt had tried the number himself before the Roosevelt had left Mayport, Florida. His boss answered with a simple hello. Kurt returned the hello, and they both laughed. His boss said he would have done the same thing—any good special agent would.
The oral instructions had become more uncertain with time. Kurt continually ran them through his mind to keep from losing the slightest detail. His shipboard duties were clear; review documents and question sailors. Those duties had led him to at least one guilty sailor named Shelby, and probably a squeamish pilot who was only buying time before jumping ship to a lucrative airline job. Well, Kurt would change his plans. He’d make sure the guy would become the friend of some huge Marine at Leavenworth.
His investigations ashore were to be even more intense than aboard the ship. That was unfortunate, for he really wanted to enjoy himself once in a while. The women were beautiful and the wine superb, and Kurt knew he would find little time for either. In Genoa his contact would be an American.
Kurt spotted a man with blue Levis, untied Nike basketball shoes, and enough camera equipment to drown him if he fell in water over three-feet deep, walking up the sidewalk. He began firing off shot-after-shot of the Columbus statue. He fit the description.
Kurt finished his espresso and scooted between traffic. He walked up to within five feet of the camera-happy man and looked up at the stone face of Columbus.
“Do you think he was the first to discover America?” Kurt asked, not looking at the man.
The man continued to focus his zoom lens on Christopher’s face. “No. The Vikings had him beat by a long shot,” came a soft woman’s voice with an Italian accent.
Kurt quickly turned to take a closer look at his contact, and sure enough she was a woman. And not just a woman, but an extremely attractive woman with her hair tucked up under a dark blue beret. Kurt moved closer, and the woman handed him one of her cameras and kissed him on both cheeks. They both started walking down the sidewalk.
“Kurt?” the woman asked.
“Yes...Kurt Lamar.”
“I’m Toni Contardo.”
Kurt didn’t know what to think of this woman. She sounded more Italian than American.
“So, how long have you worked Italy?” Kurt asked.
“Actually, I work most of Europe,” Toni said. “But my specialty is Italy for obvious reasons. You might say I prefer the beaches and the sun of the Riviera over the Alps and the lowlands. An assignment to England would really piss me off. How about you?”
“I’m from Wisconsin,” Kurt said. “So trees and lakes are just fine with me. To tell you the truth, I’ve never been to England, but I probably wouldn’t like it either.”
Kurt’s NCIS boss, Captain James Murphy, had given him the subjects that he was to discuss at first, from Columbus to a mutual disdain for England. After that he was on his own.
“So, what do ya know, kid?” Toni asked.
Well for one thing, Kurt thought, I’m twenty-five...hardly a kid. Besides, you look only about thirty yourself. “First of all, who do you work for?” Kurt asked.
“Same as you. Murphy,” she said. “You might say I’m on loan to the Navy. Kind of a designated hitter.”
“But, who do you normally work for?” Kurt probed.
“Okay, kid, I guess you have a right to know a little more,” Toni said. “I’m with the Agency.”
“I see. Has Murphy briefed you on how much we know?” Kurt asked.
“Yes. In fact I flew to Washington to discuss it with him,” Toni said. “I want to assure you that you’re the only person aboard the Roosevelt who knows what’s going on. We just couldn’t trust the on-board NCIS team. We don’t know who knows what, so we didn’t want you ending up as shark-bait half way across the Atlantic.”
“Well, I sure as hell appreciate that,” Kurt said.
“So, what have you found out, kid?” Toni asked again.
“I’m sure Petty Officer First Class Shelby Taylor is involved,” Kurt said. “He’s been ordering parts and failing to document anything. He’s misplaced technical manuals for days only to have them show up later. I think he’s the lowest man on the rung though; he doesn’t have the brains to be anything more.”
“What’s missing?” Toni asked.
“Computer components mostly, but from some of our newest avionics packages with some pretty hot chips,” Kurt said. “The Europeans don’t even have this technology.”
He walked beside her down a sidewalk toward a garden with palm trees and ivy-lined walls. Flowers would have been everywhere in the summer.
“Shit. That’s what we were afraid of,” Toni said. “What’s he doing with it?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s loading it somewhere on one of our A-7s,” Kurt said. “Then the pilot diverts from the carrier to shore and downloads the stuff at that time.”
“There’s a pilot involved too?” Toni asked. “Who is it, kid?”
“He’s a lieutenant in the squadron. Named Budd...Stephen Budd. The other pilots have nicknamed him Wiseguy.” Kurt said. “You know Budweiser.”
“Cute. Why do you suspect him?”
“I’ve gone over his flight records. He diverts his aircraft a lot. In fact, he’s done it twice already on this cruise.”
“But...”
“Wait. That’s not all. Last night he bingoed to Pisa,” Kurt added.
“But are you sure that’s how the stuff is getting off the ship?” Toni asked. “I mean I trust you, but are you sure?”
Kurt thought for a minute. Christ, what did this woman want, a fuckin’ signed confession? “No, I’m not positive. But I think we should check into it further,” Kurt said. “Lt. Budd is stuck in Pisa for at least five days, since we don’t leave Genoa until Wednesday, and flight ops won’t commence until probably Thursday.”
/> “Wait a minute, kid. What’s this we shit?” Toni asked. “I work Italy alone.”
“Well, I’ve got a four-day pass, and you need me,” Kurt said. “I could check out the A-7 to see if anything is really wrong with it, before someone has a chance to mess with it.”
Toni considered that. “So, kid...you ever see Pisa on a Saturday night?”
“No.”
“Let’s go.”
7
WIESBADEN, GERMANY
Jake pulled into the Kaiser driveway, where red bricks were lined with small pines and yews. The grass was a luscious green. The white stucco house was accented by large exposed swatches of dark brown timber. The Kaiser’s neighborhood reminded Jake of some of Portland’s southern suburbs.
Gazing at the house, Jake remembered the first time he met the Kaisers. He had just resigned his commission in the Air Force and had remained in Germany for an extended vacation. He was still trying to decide who to work for.
A number of stateside companies had offered him employment due to his security clearance and military knowledge, but none of them could offer him overseas locations. And he wasn’t ready to leave just yet. Then the CIA offered him a job that included stationing in Germany, but also working in Italy and other European countries. They wanted him mostly for his computer skills.
Jake jumped at the opportunity and took ninety days to travel Europe before going through his CIA training. On one of his travels, Jake was waiting for a train late one evening in Frankfurt when three Skinheads began harassing a young man and woman. The train station dock was isolated and dark, and Jake was the only person who could help. Jake was going to let the man deal with them, but then the Skinheads pulled knives. The Skinheads didn’t even notice Jake walking up behind them. Jake took one guy out with a kidney punch, and another with a roundhouse kick to the jaw. The third decided to run.
Walter and Edeltrud Kaiser had been extremely grateful to Jake. They had asked him to dinner at their home in Wiesbaden, and he had accepted. His trip to Hamburg had to wait a day, but it was a small price to pay for a friendship that was nurtured over the years while Jake worked in Germany.
