by John J. Lamb
“Oh, like your time spent as a raven?” I nonchalantly asked.
“Bradley, you are a bloody wretch.”
“What’s a raven?” Ash asked.
“A rabid Edgar Allen Poe fan,” I said quickly, deciding it was probably best for my long-term health not to tell the women that a “raven” was the spy-craft label for a secret agent whose primary function is to serve as a gigolo. Not that I thought Sergei had ever performed that function during his espionage career, but guys like to tease each other unmercifully.
“I’m happy to serve in whatever capacity you wish…so long as you do not make me sit for hours with him.” Sergei gave me an exasperated look.
Tina shyly said, “I’d like your help very much, Sergei. Maybe we could team up together in one vehicle while Brad and Ash are in the other.”
I said, “So, you’ve got your surveillance team. Now we’re going to need two unmarked cars. We can use our SUV.”
“And I can get a plain-wrap sedan from the county motor pool.” Tina turned to her computer and, after clicking the mouse a couple of times, began typing.
“So, what time do we meet tomorrow morning?” Ash asked.
“The post office opens at eight and it’s an hour to Shefford Gap. Six-thirty?” Tina asked as the printer began to spit out a sheet of paper.
Ash twisted my wrist slightly to look at my watch. “That’s less than seven hours from now. I guess we’d all better go home and get some sleep.”
I said, “Actually, I think it might be a good idea if maybe we did a quick recon of Shefford Gap tonight. It’d be useful to know the lay of the land and whether there’s mail in our suspect’s post office box. What was the box number again?”
Tina flipped through the pages of her notebook. “Twenty-seven and it’s registered to Adam Mumford. If you really think it’s necessary, we’ll go, but I have to check on my kids first.”
“And we have to let Kitch out of his crate,” Ash yawned.
Sergei said, “Look, there’s no point in all of us driving up there. So, why don’t we do this? Tina can take Ash home, while Bradley and I scout Shefford Gap. We’ll be back before you know it.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
“But I should be doing that,” Tina said half-heartedly.
“You need to check on your children and get some rest for tomorrow, boss,” I said.
“I suppose.”
“And you’ll come right home?” Ash asked.
“Don’t I always?” I asked and then quickly added, “Don’t answer that.”
“Don’t worry, Ashleigh. I’ll keep him out of trouble,” said Sergei.
“Before you go…” Tina took the sheet from the printer, signed it, and handed it to me, saying, “Here.”
“What’s this?”
“It’s your permit to carry a concealed firearm.”
“I don’t think I’ll need that tonight.”
Tina looked solemn. “Probably not, but tomorrow may be a different story. This guy has already taken one shot at you and I want you to be able to defend yourself if he tries it again.”
Twenty-three
No sooner had we slammed the SUV’s doors shut, than Sergei said, “You and your bloody smart mouth. Are you trying to make things more difficult for me?”
“Sorry about the raven crack,” I replied while starting the truck.
“You should be, especially since your wife promised that you’d be on your best behavior.”
I gave him a look of astonishment. “And you believed her? When did you talk to Ash?”
“When she picked up your dinner. She pulled me aside and quietly told me that I should stop wasting time and let Tina know how I feel about her. That’s why I brought dessert over.”
“Again, sorry. She didn’t get the chance to say anything to me about that…just like she didn’t mention her interest in going into police work.”
It was Sergei’s turn to gape at me. “What?”
“Yep. Apparently I’ve infected her with the cop virus and Tina wants her as a deputy—not that I blame her. I’d hire Ash as a cop in a hot second.”
“But how do you feel about that?”
“Proud, surprised, kind of scared. It’s a violent world, even here in the Valley.”
“But she’ll have the benefit of your mentoring,” said Sergei, in what sounded like an artificially hearty tone. “She’ll be fine.”
“I hope you’re right.”
We headed westward across the valley, but not at my customary breakneck speed. Deer often cross the unlit highway at night and if you’re traveling too fast, you can’t see the animal until it’s too late to avoid a collision. And sometimes the deer isn’t the only one who meets its maker in the crash.
Shefford Gap was about thirty miles southwest of Remmelkemp Mill, on the other side of the Shenandoah Valley, in the hilly farm country beneath the Allegheny Mountains. We drove through Harrisonburg and into a rural area primarily populated by Amish families. The combination of a new moon and no streetlights meant that it was as dark as the inside of a closed coffin. We had to stop several times to shine a flashlight at street signs.
Turning on to Vaughn Quarry Road, we drove through gloomy apple orchards and at last arrived in Shefford Gap. It was after midnight and the place was like a ghost town. The community consisted of two churches—one Baptist and the other Mennonite; an abandoned fruit and produce shop; a combination convenience store and gas station, which was closed for the evening; and a brick post office the size of a two-car garage. As I expected, there was a light on inside the post office, providing illumination for late visitors wanting to drop off mail or check their PO box.
“I’ve seen worse places to conduct a surveillance,” I said.
Sergei grunted. “True, but we’ll have to set up awfully close to the post office.”
“Yeah, but if we move any farther out, we’ll be on the edge of the orchards and still be conspicuous as hell.”
“I know. Hopefully, this place will look a little less deserted tomorrow morning, when the store is open and there are some people around.”
Pulling into the post office’s gravel parking lot, I said, “We’ll make sure there isn’t a back door to this place and take a quick look at the P.O. box to see if there’s any mail. Then we’ll head home.”
“Suits me. It’s been a long day.”
Despite appearances, someone must have been up and astir in the village. As we climbed from the SUV, a car horn beeped twice from the direction of the gas station. Then a vehicle engine roared to life. Obviously, the horn was intended as some sort of signal. I glanced at Sergei who nodded in silent agreement.
We froze in our tracks as the post office door flew open. Two men bolted outside and charged down the steps toward us. Since I was looking into the light, the only thing I could initially tell about them was that one was a little shorter and heavier than the other. Meanwhile, a pair of headlights flashed on in the convenience store parking lot and the vehicle began to race toward the post office. I didn’t know what we’d interrupted, but the odds were that it was illegal.
“Hold it there!” I yelled.
I grabbed the taller man’s bicep, but he twisted from the hold and a split-second later I was staggered by a punch to my left temple. At the same time, I could hear the sound of a struggle as Sergei tackled the other guy. Shaking my head to clear my vision, I swung my cane at my assailant. He dodged the blow, but made no attempt to escape to the orange Hummer, which had skidded to a stop on the side of the road. Instead, he dove at Sergei, who had the other man in a rear wristlock.
Recognizing the vehicle, I shouted at Sergei. “Watch yourself! These guys are Yakuza!”
By now, I recognized the man who’d clobbered me was one of Ota’s kobun, and I delivered a vicious backhand blow with my cane to his right knee. He gasped with pain and fell to the pavement, but immediately bounced back to his feet as he continued his frenzied efforts to free his companion. That told
me he was trying to rescue his boss.
When I didn’t hear or see any other vehicles heading in our direction, I understood that the Yakuza must have shaken the FBI surveillance team. We were on our own and I fearfully wondered if the feds had failed us in another way. Could they have been mistaken about Merrit being alive when the Yakuza left the museum?
The third gangster jumped from the Hummer and ran toward us and I suddenly regretted my decision not to carry my pistol tonight. Unfortunately, at least one of the Yakuza had come prepared for action, because I heard the unmistakable metallic snap of a gun’s hammer being cocked. Trying not to panic, I considered shouting for help, but knew it would be useless. As I recalled, the nearest home was almost a quarter of a mile away.
Then Ota stopped struggling and I saw why: Sergei was standing behind the oyabun and had him in a tight chokehold while pushing the business end of a small revolver into his right ear. I’d had no idea Sergei was carrying a gun, but considering his background in the deadly universe of espionage, I really shouldn’t have been surprised, even if he’d produced a flamethrower.
Sergei said, “No more games. Tell your lads to stand down or I’ll kill you and them.”
Ota licked at dry lips and after a long pause half-shouted something in Japanese to his goons, but it didn’t look as if they were ready to surrender. They split up and it was clear they were hoping to flank Sergei. Brandishing my cane, I moved to cover Sergei’s unprotected left side. Then Ota glanced at me and blinked in surprise. He shouted at his kobun again and this time they stopped, but didn’t relax their combat stances.
Ota said, “Mr. Lyon?”
“That’s right, Mr. Ota, and I guess you are just nothing but a gurentai—a freaking hoodlum. You lied to me.”
The gangster’s jaw got tight. “I did not lie! You warned me not to come back here, but I never said that I would submit to your instructions. I want my money back, or the real teddy bears.”
“I think you’re missing the bigger issue. You came sneaking back here to find Adam Mumford—or whoever he really is—and you probably intended to thump him like you did Merrit.”
“We did not kill Mr. Merrit! The other policemen can prove that.”
Ota was right, but I wasn’t in the mood to make concessions. I snapped, “As easy as it was for you to elude the other policemen tonight, it makes me wonder if maybe they just weren’t paying attention at the museum. By the way, where is F Troop?”
“Please?”
“The FBI. Where are they?”
“I don’t know. We crossed some railroad tracks just before a train came and they could not follow us.”
“Which provided you with the opportunity to come up here and try to murder the right guy this time.”
Ota scowled. “I was not lying. Mr. Merrit was alive when we left.”
Sergei apparently noticed one of the kobun move slightly. He quickly pulled his gun from Ota’s ear and aimed it at the thug, saying, “Tell your man that if he continues to slide his hand toward his back pocket, I’m going to shoot him and that’s my last warning.”
Ota yelled at the gangster, who sullenly nodded.
I said, “Okay, let’s pretend I’m stupid and I buy your story that you didn’t kill Merrit. Why the hell did you come up here?”
There was a long pause before Ota answered, “We were trying to find Adam Mumford’s home address in the administrative office, but I only wanted to talk to him.”
“Right. So, you broke into the post office?”
“No. You arrived before we could get in. You can check.”
“We will. But, I’m confused. If you’re the boss, why didn’t you stay in the truck while your kobun committed the burglary?”
“Regrettably, I am the only one who can read English.”
“You didn’t happen to look in box number twenty-seven, did you?”
“Yes. There are letters in the box.” Ota glanced over his shoulder at Sergei. “You are hurting my throat. Can you please let me go?”
Sergei glanced at me and I nodded. He released Ota and shoved him toward his kobun, while keeping the gun trained on the trio.
I said, “You say you were just going to talk if you found his home address?”
“I was going to urge Mr. Mumford to give me the bears I paid for or refund my money…without violence, of course.” Ota gave me a chilly smile.
“Yeah, I’ll bet. That explains why you fought with us when we tried to stop you from leaving.”
“I regret that. We saw from your truck that you were not the FBI and we were just trying to escape.”
Sergei slowly released the revolver’s hammer so that it was no longer on a hair trigger, but maintained his aim at the Yakuza. “So, what are we going to do with them?”
“Let me check inside the post office to see if there’s any evidence of a burglary.” I headed for the steps, keeping a wary eye on the Yakuza. “If not, we don’t have any evidence they actually tried to break in.”
Opening the door, I quickly scanned the interior of the post office, which reeked of fresh cigarette smoke. Everything looked normal and the wooden door leading to the administrative section of the building showed no signs of forced entry. I also noted that there wasn’t a back door for postal customers.
I came back down the steps and said, “Mr. Ota, I want your word that you and your kobun are going to get the hell out of here and never come back.”
Ota gave me a curt yet formal nod. “I give my promise.”
“You’re not going to just let them go?” Sergei sounded incredulous.
“I don’t like it any more than you do. But there’s no proof they’ve committed a crime, so we can’t arrest them. And I sure don’t want to call the FBI. They won’t find us before morning.”
“You’ve got a point.” Sergei lowered the revolver and slipped it into the waistband of his pants.
“Thank you, Mr. Lyon,” said Ota.
“You’re welcome. Now, get moving before I change my mind.”
Ota spoke to his thugs and they hustled to the Hummer and began to climb into it. Suddenly, in the near distance I could hear what seemed like several vehicle engines. I looked eastward down the road and saw the bright glow of headlights. A moment later, three sedans and a van sped into Shefford Gap. One of the cars shot in front of the Hummer and skidded to a stop, while another pulled up right behind the Yakuza’s vehicle. The gangsters were trapped.
I recognized the white van from Boyds Bear Country and allowed myself to relax a little when I realized that the newcomers were FBI agents. For once, I was impressed with the feds. Somehow, they’d actually found us. Flashlights danced and shone in the darkness as the agents pulled Ota and his kobun from the Hummer.
Someone approached us from the van and I recognized Special Agent Bartle. He shook his head in resignation when he saw me. “You, again?”
“I missed you too, Agent Bartle.”
“FBI?” asked Sergei.
“I thought you could tell that from the dull look on his face,” I muttered.
“And who’re you?” Bartle demanded of Sergei.
“Unless you have an Umbra clearance, that’s none of your business,” Sergei said in an equitable tone. Most people have never heard the term, but “Umbra” is a security classification several stages higher than “Top Secret.”
Bartle looked as if he’d just bitten into a lemon. Turning to me, he said, “What in the name of God was going on here?”
“We were following up on a lead in our murder investigation and interrupted them before they could burglarize the post office.”
“Why were they doing that?”
“Like I told you in Gettysburg, Ota is a teddy bear collector. A couple of months ago, he purchased a pair of antique bears over the Internet and later found out they were counterfeit. The check was mailed to a P.O. box here. Long story short: He either wants his money back or the genuine bears.”
Bartle glanced at the Hummer. “And he was going to
break in and get the seller’s residence address?”
“Yep, and then do a little bill collecting. So, where have you guys been?”
Bartle grunted with frustration. “We lost them in Winchester behind the longest damn freight train I’ve ever seen.”
“That’s almost a hundred miles north. How did you manage to find them here?”
“We put our own GPS device on the Hummer before they picked it up at the car rental agency.”
A Chevy Suburban now rolled into the hamlet and I watched as the agents ushered Ota and his kobun into the vehicle. Ota was insisting that the feds transfer his luggage and new teddy bears from the Hummer to the Suburban, but nobody seemed to be paying him any attention.
I asked, “What are you going to do with those guys now?”
“Take them back to Washington and keep them in protective custody until their flight leaves tomorrow night. We’re done chasing them over hell’s half acre.”
“Good idea, but can you do me a favor?”
Bartle gave me a suspicious look. “That depends on the favor.”
“This is an easy one,” I said. “Let him have his new teddy bears. You and I both know that sometimes a prisoner’s property can be misplaced and I don’t want to give him any reason to come back here.”
Twenty-four
It was just after one-thirty in the morning by the time I got home, and it took twenty minutes to tell Ash what had happened and assure her that I really was uninjured. Then I pulled off my clothes and climbed into bed. Even though I was dog-tired, I didn’t sleep well. I never do before an arrest operation, because I’m focused on role-playing successful solutions to every possible tactical scenario, no matter how improbable. But this time my brain was working overtime. Ash had to be factored into the series of potentially lethal equations and that changed everything. Curiously enough, she’d gone back to sleep quickly and I resisted the urge to touch her cheek, for fear of waking her. It wasn’t until after the old long case clock downstairs chimed three o’clock that I drifted off into a restless slumber.
