by Mike Jenne
Dayton, Ohio
11:04 p.m., Saturday, October 4, 1969
Jimmy Hara placed the call from a payphone two blocks away from Yost’s apartment. There was no answer at the first number, but someone picked up the second number almost immediately. Judging from the sounds in the background—loud music and several people talking—the phone was in a nightclub or bar.
The conversation was almost entirely one-sided and was over in less than a minute. Hara concluded with, “Yeah, he should have at least a thousand bucks, maybe a lot more. But listen to me, you can smack him around all you want, and hurt him as you see fit, but don’t kill him. If he ends up dead, then you and I have big problems, and I don’t want that. Understood?”
Satisfied that his information was received, Hara hung up the phone, pulled off his gloves, and then walked two blocks north to occupy the vantage point he had selected. Taking a seat on an old milk crate concealed in the shadows by the Dumpster, he verified that the spot had a good view of the parking lot and the front of the apartment building. Now, it was just a matter of waiting until the show began.
Forest Park Apartments, Dayton, Ohio
11:48 p.m., Saturday, October 4, 1969
Yost was sound asleep when he was roughly yanked out of his bed and hurled to the floor. The lamp on the bedside table clicked on. Lying on the carpet, he looked up to see the same two thugs who had attacked him in December.
“How did you find me?” he asked, slowly crawling towards the wall.
“Doesn’t really matter,” said the larger of the two goons. “A little birdie whispered to me that you just came into a fairly sizeable windfall. Here’s the deal, Yost—you’re in for some pain and suffering regardless of what happens, but you’re going to be hurting much less if you tell us where you stashed the cash. Do that, and we won’t break your legs.”
“We’re going to find it,” added the second thug, tapping his palm with a ball peen hammer. “No matter where it is, because we aren’t leaving until we find it or you tell us where it is.”
Cowering in a corner, Yost knew that trying to retain the money was a lost cause. “In the dresser over there,” he confessed timidly. “In the top drawer, rolled up in a sock.”
Brandishing a baseball bat, the second thug walked over to the dresser, opened the drawer, and quickly found the money. He took off his gloves, licked his fingers, and counted it. “Three grand and some change,” he noted.
“That’s all?” asked the first thug. “Every cent? You swear that you don’t have anything else hidden in here?”
Yost shook his head.
“Good,” said the first thug, jamming the sock into Yost’s mouth. “That will do for an interim payment on your debt. Now, it’s time for us to settle some other accounts.”
12:25 a.m., Sunday, October 5, 1969
The thugs were fast but efficient. When the mauling was over, after they departed with their loot, Yost was delirious with pain. He was fairly sure that his right arm and several ribs were broken. Incapacitated, sprawled on the floor, he looked anxiously at the beige Princess telephone on the nightstand, but couldn’t move toward it to call for help.
He heard the front door creak open, followed by faint footsteps.
“Yost?” asked a soft voice. “Yost, are you in here?”
“Jimmy?” mumbled Yost, glimpsing a familiar face. “Jimmy Hara? What are you doing here?”
“Just stopped by to pay you a visit,” answered Hara, kneeling next to him. “Looks like I showed up right at the nick of time. Man, you look like shit! Rough night?”
“Can you help me?” stammered Yost. “I think I need to go to the hospital.”
Nodding, Hara answered, “Sure, buddy. I’ll take care of you. I’ll get you right to where you need to be.” Hara reached into the lower pocket of his faded field jacket, pulled out an object bound in a white handkerchief, carefully unwrapped it, and slid it under the bed.
“What was …”
“Listen to me, Yost,” whispered Hara, leaning down so his lips were only inches from Yost’s pulverized right ear. His warm moist breath smelled like rotten meat. “Do you know the penalty for treason?”
Yost paused, then cringed as he quietly croaked, “Death?”
“Correct answer, sunshine,” whispered Hara.
Aerospace Support Project
5:45 p.m., Monday, October 6, 1969
Wolcott chuckled as he read an article concerning an incident near Cleveland yesterday. The Cuyahoga River had caught fire again. Actually, a slick of oil and debris had burned for about thirty minutes, but he thought it bizarre that a waterway could become so horribly polluted that it could actually burn. Scanning further down the front page, he read another headline and gasped. He punched the intercom button and ordered, “Winters! Run downstairs and drag Jimmy Hara up here right now. I don’t care what the hell he’s doin’, I want him now!”
Just a few minutes later, Hara entered the office unannounced and took a seat at the conference table. “Did you call, Virgil?” he asked. “Something I can do for you?”
“Did you know about this, Jimmy?” demanded Wolcott. He held up the newspaper, pointed at a small headline in the Metro section, and read aloud, “Wright-Patt Airman Believed Murdered.” He folded the paper and slapped it on his desk blotter. “This Sergeant Yost they’re talking about, is that not the same Yost you were investigating? Have you read this?”
Hara nodded, yawned, looked at the ceiling and said, “Oh yeah, Virg, I read the article. I also read the official reports at Dayton PD this afternoon. Want a quick summary? Yost’s 1957 Chevy van was found abandoned on a bridge over the Great Miami River early yesterday morning. Dayton police found a bloodstained Oriental rug and two empty cement bags in the back of the van. There was a circular imprint on the carpet, about two feet in diameter, that looked like it was made by a metal washtub. They strongly suspect Yost had been killed in the van and then dumped in the river.”
Like a bored teenager reciting a tedious English assignment, Hara droned on. “The Dayton cops are still dragging the river. Yesterday afternoon, their detectives searched an apartment where Yost was known to be staying, based on an anonymous tip called in by a neighbor. The caller said he heard strange noises from the apartment just before midnight and then saw Yost’s van and another car—a dark-colored Dodge Charger—leave the parking lot immediately afterwards. He wrote down the license tag on the Charger.
“The detectives found a Smith & Wesson .38 Special revolver on the floor of the apartment, underneath a bed. It was assumed to have been lost in a struggle. They dusted Yost’s van, the apartment, and the gun, but found no prints except Yost’s. It looks like the bad guys were wearing gloves and were very careful.”
Hara yawned, stretched and continued his recitation. “Dayton PD’s big break came when their crime lab identified fingerprints on the cartridges loaded in the revolver. It appears that our culprit was astute enough to wipe down the outside of his gun and wear gloves during the crime, but he apparently didn’t abide by the same precautions when he loaded it.
“The prints matched a known criminal who was believed to be a payment enforcer for a local loan shark. They picked him up at his apartment, and he just happened to be in the possession of over three thousand dollars in cash. Coincidentally, his fingerprints and Yost’s fingerprints just happened to be on the bills. The suspect also owns a 1968 Dodge Charger. The description and the license plate match what was reported by the anonymous caller.
“Virg, this sure looks to be an open and shut case to me,” said Hara, shrugging his shoulders. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s strictly under the purview of the local police. Granted, Yost was a problem, but it doesn’t appear that he’s a problem anymore. Anything else, Virg?”
“Did you have anything to do with this?” asked Wolcott bluntly. “Tell me the truth, Jimmy, skins off.”
Hara gazed at him, cracked his knuckles, and said, “Virgil, we’ve known each other for almost twen
ty years and I’ve never told you anything but the truth.”
Wolcott examined Hara’s impassive face; his lack of expression and blank eyes reminded him of when he had first met Hara as a jaded half-breed teenager in the ruins of Hiroshima. He knew that Hara was providing a true and accurate account of Yost’s demise, even if he wasn’t filling in some of the most pertinent details.
“So, answer me, Jimmy, did you have anything to do with this?” demanded Wolcott, waving the newspaper.
“If you recall, Virgil, we had a problem and you told me to fix it. That was back in August. It took me a while, but I fixed it.”
Wolcott rolled his eyes, grimaced and declared in a low voice, “Tarnations! If Mark Tew ever heard of any of this, or even suspected it, he’d throw both our asses in jail, if he even lived through his initial conniption fit.”
Hara nodded solemnly, opened the manila folder on his lap, and slid a sheet of paper across Wolcott’s desk.
“What’s this?”
“You know the deal,” replied Hara, leaning over Wolcott’s desk and speaking in a muted voice. “No job is finished until the paperwork is done, and I still have a body to dispose of. I need your signature for that little transaction, Virgil, since you and I both know that there’s nothing to be found in the Great Miami but old tires, scrap metal, dead fish, and rotten logs.”
Wolcott nervously glanced at the form, quickly endorsed it, turned it face down, and slipped it across the desk to Hara. “No more of this, Jimmy. Please, brother, I’m beggin’ you. We can’t do this again.”
“Oh, I don’t think there will be a need again, Virg,” replied Hara, returning the form to the folder and standing up. “I blundered this time, but I’m back on top of things now. No more slip-ups. Granted, there are still some details to be tied up, but I’ll finish those before I go.”
“Go? Where are you going?”
Hara extracted a medical report from the folder and placed it in front of Wolcott. “That’s the results of my lab work,” he observed calmly. “I’ve been diagnosed with acute lymphocytic leukemia. It’s a type of cancer. It’s very aggressive and almost always fatal. I suppose I was killed by that atomic bomb, but it’s just taken a few years to catch up with me.”
Stunned, Wolcott muttered, “I’m so sorry, Jimmy. What can we …”
“Nothing, Virg. Thanks, though. I want to spend some time with my family before I die, but I’m going to settle this matter first. I really don’t like loose ends.”
10
HASTY ENCOUNTERS
Woodland Cemetery, Dayton, Ohio
8:19 a.m., Tuesday, October 7, 1969
Seated on a concrete bench under a massive oak, Morozov waited for Jimmy Hara to appear. If nothing else, it was a pleasant day for an outdoors excursion. The sun was shining and the temperature was accommodating. Squirrels scampered close by, chirping birds flitted through the spreading branches overhead, but a flock of pigeons warily kept their distance.
He had called Hara at home several times in the past two weeks, but the American had expressed reluctance to talk. Last night, in the aftermath of Yost’s alleged murder over the weekend, the engineering technician finally conceded to a meeting.
Morozov shook his head as he reflected on the events of the past week. While he hoped that this new contact would be forthcoming with information about the activities within Hangar Three, Morozov had his doubts. He was furious that Yost had not provided anything of value. He was due to submit a detailed report to Washington by the end of the week. As it was, he couldn’t fathom how to explain why he had no results commensurate with the time and money expended on Yost. And now, Yost had been killed, apparently by criminals.
Even in death, Yost was an irritating thorn in his side. Several weeks ago, he had issued Yost an expensive German-made Minox-B miniature camera and trained him on its operation, but Yost had failed to produce any pictures of merit. Morozov suspected that the American airman had pawned the camera, probably to finance yet another liquor store sortie. Now that Yost was dead, the Minox was yet another loose end that he would be called to account for.
Once holding such great promise, this elusive endeavor had become the most frustrating experience of his career. He felt sure that his return to the Motherland was imminent, since he had been unsuccessful in gathering any useful information about Project Blue Book or the Aerospace Support Project. His GRU bosses clamored for substantial evidence that the Americans were studying alien technologies. Morozov had placated them for several months now, but they were growing increasingly impatient.
He surmised that his safest option was to gradually extricate himself from this Blue Book debacle, ideally handing it over to a GRU officer even more junior than himself. He had tendered a request to be reassigned to the GRU’s Hanoi bureau, which had been turned down repeatedly. In truth, to make matters even more aggravating, his appeal for the transfer had not been denied, but rather had just been ignored every time he resubmitted it.
He looked up as he heard someone approach, folded a newspaper and draped it over his lap as a safety signal. The newcomer was wearing the specified colors. “Mind if I sit here?” he asked, pointing towards nearby headstones. “My uncle is buried in that section over there.”
Morozov gestured towards the bench and studied the man as he sat down. His features were vaguely Oriental, like he was the progeny of a mixed marriage. Morozov had trained with GRU officers from Kazakhstan, which was formerly part of the Mongol Empire, and this man looked like he could easily be from that region. But at least the Kazakhs were pure-blooded; this man was obviously a despicable mongrel, as were most Americans. “Jimmy Hara?” he asked.
Hara nodded.
“Your identification, please.”
Comparing Hara’s appearance to the photograph and details on the identification card, Morozov was shocked. It was obviously Hara, but the man looked horrible. His trousers sagged at his waist; it was obvious that he had recently lost a considerable amount of weight. His skin was ashen and the whites of his eyes—at least the parts that weren’t bloodshot—were tinged with an unnatural shade of yellow.
“It’s really me,” noted Hara, as if to apologize for the seeming discrepancy. “I’ve been very sick recently.”
“Sorry,” replied Morozov, handing the card back. “Listen, Jimmy, you can call me Anatoly.”
“Anatoly?” asked Hara. “Isn’t that a Russian name? Yost claimed that you were Israeli.”
“I am. My family left Russia right after the Revolution. There were a lot of Jews in Russia and Eastern Europe. Of course, not so many after the War.”
“Oh. Makes sense,” replied Hara. “Before we talk, there’s something I need to tell you. We won’t meet again after today, so if you have something to ask, you need to ask it today.”
Morozov nodded, but said, “I can understand your reluctance, Jimmy, but I’m sure that I can offer you something to motivate you to overcome your inhibitions …”
“That’s very tempting, but I really don’t think so,” interjected Hara. “Like I said, this will be our first and last chat. I’ll tell you: initially, I didn’t want to come here, but I’m doing it for Eric Yost.”
“But he’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, but he was still my friend. Look, he used to be a really solid, dependable guy, but he went way overboard with his drinking and gambling, and landed himself in a tight jam. Now, would you care to tell me what you want?”
“I would like you to tell me what you do in Hangar Three,” said Morozov bluntly.
Quizzically raising his eyebrows, Hara asked, “Hangar Three? Pardon me, Anatoly, but didn’t you say you were from Israel?”
“I did.”
Hara sighed and said, “If you’re really an Israeli, then you shouldn’t be much interested in what we do in Hangar Three.”
“Why would that be?” asked Morozov. “Indulge me.”
“If you insist. Hangar Three is a reverse-engineering facility. We study forei
gn aircraft, especially Soviet fighters. We rip them apart, tinker with them, put them back together, and then send them out West for flight-testing in Arizona and Nevada.”
“And why wouldn’t we Israelis be interested in that?” asked Morozov.
Hara laughed. “Are you kidding? Honestly, you don’t know? Where do you think we obtain most of our Soviet hardware?”
“Oh. But what about the UFOs? Alien spacecraft?” asked Morozov. “Yost said …”
“Yost said? If you haven’t figured it out yet, towards the end, Yost was an unreliable drunk and a pathological liar. He would probably tell you that the sky was green if you stuck enough money in his pocket, and I suspect that you probably did. He was in a pretty desperate situation, so I’m sure that he was willing to tell you anything you wanted to hear. You obviously wanted to hear that there were UFOs in Hangar Three, so that’s what he told you. Honestly, I don’t even think he knew that he was lying anymore. Very sad, since he used to be such a great guy.”
Morozov nodded in agreement. “I suppose that you’re right.”
A trickle of blood-tinged saliva oozed down Hara’s chin. “Excuse me,” he said. “My gums are getting so damned loose that my teeth are falling out.” Hara gingerly stuck two fingers in his mouth; grimacing as he tugged and wiggled, he easily extracted a bloody molar. He examined the tooth briefly and then tossed it away. It rebounded off an old tombstone and landed in the neatly preened grass.
“I shouldn’t have asked you here,” said Morozov. “You’re obviously very sick.”
Hara smiled; at least half of his teeth were missing. “Yeah, I’m sick all right. I’m dying. It’s leukemia, a type of cancer. It’s terminal. I won’t be around much longer.”
Morozov looked at Hara and felt pity for him. In his childhood, when Stalingrad was under siege, he had watched many people die. Most died swiftly, but some—like his aunt and cousins who starved to death because they could not force themselves to eat that which was objectionable—had the unfortunate fate of an agonizingly slow and painful demise. So Morozov was familiar with death, and he saw in Hara the detached demeanor of a man who had reconciled himself to his fate. “I’m very sorry for you,” he said solemnly.
