by James Ward
Randy turned away, staring at the wall. “Why should I?”
Steck unbuttoned his shirt pocket and removed the folded photo of Brandt and his men in the Zodiac. “I have a photo taken by a wildlife photographer.” He proffered the grainy blown-up print that clearly showed Brandt’s face. “There’s just no way that face is anyone else but Glenn Brandt’s kid. I know you have him here with you.”
Randy Pullin stared at the photo for a moment then fixed his deep set dark eyed stare on Steck. “So how do you connect one dot?”
“There are other dots Randy, too many other dots.” Their eyes stayed locked for way too long a time. Steck continued, “I’m not going to connect them unless I have to, Randy. There was something taken from a Navy warehouse that morning that I need to retrieve. If I get it back the dots don’t need to be connected.”
Colonel Randy broke eye contact. He paced the room for about a minute in deep thought. In silence he dropped his big frame into a big leather office chair behind his massive desk. Steck sunk into a leather couch along the opposite wall.
The silence was palpable. Steck decided to break it. “It’s your choice, Randy. So far this is just between you and me.”
Pullin stared at the ceiling for a moment more. Steck figured he was either a dead man or about to make a break-through.
Finally, Randy pulled himself upright, looking the part of an officer and a gentleman. He fumbled with a letter opener that looked too much like a dagger for Steck’s comfort. “My men and some of your former compadres liberated a certain crate full of antiques that belongs to some guy in the Middle East. It would have been a real clean operation if a certain psychopath who has no connection with my organization hadn’t indulged his penchant for bloodletting.”
“That would be Paul Roche,” Steck asserted.
“Yup, that would be Roche.” Pullin was learning that Steck in fact had many dots to connect. “I should have known better than to accept an assignment that involved Roche.”
“Who wants the crate, and where is it now?” Steck continued calmly.
Pullin seemed his usual casual self, but Steck perceived he was choosing his words carefully. “I don’t know where it is, except that by now it’s probably out of the country.”
“Does Roche have it?” Steck was fishing.
“I said out of the country, Bob.” Steck took that to mean that Randy was unaware of Paul Roche’s whereabouts. He didn’t think Randy would try to protect Roche. So far Randy was cooperating. Steck had no idea how far he could go without getting himself detained or worse.
“Okay, Randy. What country and who has it?”
Randy’s eyes widened and fluttered. “Canada.” He said simply.
“And who has it?” Bob persisted.
Pullin’s mind raced. So this was not about Paul Roche murdering a Navy guard, he thought. Steck is fixated on finding that crate. Why is he so driven by the crate? “See here, Steck, it’s only a few trinkets, for goodness sake why all the fuss?”
“All I can tell you is that the contents of that crate could ignite a flipping holy war if they get into the wrong hands.” Steck was getting perturbed. “Look, Randy this is no child’s game of soldier or spy or thief. I’ll bet you got paid a lot of money to obtain that crate full of ‘trinkets’ as you call them.”
“Roger that,” Randy replied, “A heap of money.” He got Steck’s point. “So, it’s not just some antiques sought after by some Arab Sheik with a big ego and a bigger bank account?”
“Tell me who has the crate,” Steck repeated. Bob cautioned himself. He had asked the wrong question. He figured he only had one, maybe two more chances to get more information.
“Truthfully, I don’t know,” was the terse reply.
Steck waited a moment, carefully forming his last question. “Randy, this is very important. I’m not going to threaten you. I just need to know. Who paid you to get this crate?”
“I’ve gone way too far here, Bob.” Pullin was collecting his thoughts carefully as well. “Do I have your word that this goes no further, that Free Nation is never implicated, and it ends here?” He was asking a lot and he knew it.
“I’m not in a position to make deals, Randy.” Bob wanted to tread lightly. “I can assure you that in honor of our friendship and what we have been through together, I will do my utmost to shield you, but that’s all I can offer.”
Pullin knew that was the best he was going to get from Bob Steck. After some time, he set his face in a manner Bob had never seen through all their relationship. There was softness in Randy’s countenance that Steck would never have thought possible from the big man. Pullin leaned back in his chair, hands knotted behind the back of his neck.
“This organization has done a lot of good for a lot of people, Bob. I took people in who were getting crapped on by the American people, the pinko politicians and even by the military they were willing to give their life for. If we had time, I would walk you over to our veteran’s home, where there are dozens of guys who could never live a normal life anywhere but here. They come without legs, without arms with PTSD and mostly destitute because our illustrious government doesn’t think they’re sick. We’ve mended broken families and raised their children to be good soldiers. We’ve raised and educated more than nineteen hundred Amerasian children over the years, most of whom now have productive lives in the outside world. This has been my life’s work and I’m proud I did it. Now that screwball Roche has managed to mess it up.” He paused, waiting to see what effect he might be having on Steck.
“None of what’s happened ever gave you the right to break the law.” If he was going to be killed here, Steck figured it would have to be now.
Randy looked crestfallen. “Of course you’re right,” he said softly.
A loud knock at the door broke the awkward silence that followed. Colonel Randy stood up as his orderly entered, with Brandt right behind him.
Randy’s face reset to hard-nuts military. “Bob Steck, this is Major Glenn Brandt, Jr. Major Brandt, this is Bob Steck, an old buddy of your father’s and my workmate in ‘Nam.”
Brandt came to attention and snapped a salute. “At ease, Major,” said Pullin with almost fatherly pride. Brandt came to a military ‘at ease’ then offered his hand to Steck.
“Uncanny,” Steck said, looking him over as he shook Brandt’s hand. You are your father’s twin, a generation removed.
“That’s what they say sir,” Brandt replied, “except I’m not worthy of his name.”
“From the look of you I think he would be proud,” Steck offered.
In the moments that followed this feigned cordiality, Steck fixed a tough stare on Colonel Randy.
“Can this wait?” Pullin asked Brandt.
“No, Sir!” came the reply.
Colonel Randy began to make excuses and to move Steck toward the door. Bob took the opportunity to get off the post with his skin.
At the door of Pullin’s office, Steck shook his hand. Then he half whispered, “I still need to know what I know you know. Who has it?”
Randy shook his head. “Not now, Bob. I’ll be in touch.”
Steck handed him a card. “Call me. Call the cell phone on the card. I have hours, not days to get on with this.”
The two men shared a manly embrace. Then Steck left the building. He jogged across the square at the double, collected his stuff and got into his car, heading for the main gate. As he approached the gate, the guard on duty was conversing on his hand-held tactical radio. He held up a hand and Bob slowed the car, rolling the window down as he stopped. The guard came along side the car. “The Colonel expresses his regards, sir. He says take care and he’ll be in touch.”
Speeding away from the main gate to Free Nation Steck breathed a sigh of relief. It was now one pm He decided he could drop the car and meet the airplane in time to get back to Kansas City before day’s end. He hoped Randy would realize it was in his best interest to co-operate in retrieval of the crate before it left Canada.
He phoned Ryall Morgan’s office.
When told by his secretary it was Steck on the line, Morgan picked up immediately. “What have you got, Bob?”
“The crate is in Canada. I figure from the geography that it’s probably on the way to Vancouver.”
“Who in blazes has it? Morgan sounded anxious.
“I don’t know yet, but I’m hoping to have it later today. I’ll explain when I get to Langley tomorrow morning.”
He then called Susan Deet. She had just returned to her room with a better tan. It was all she had to show for the day, so far.
“Susie, I’m on the way back to your location. I have some new information about the package. I think it’s in Canada headed for Vancouver. Can you line up with anyone there?”
“I sure can,” was her immediate response. She knew Greg Liss had a former girl friend at CSIS. She would start there.
“We need to get shipping records, both air and sea out of Vancouver. We need to get coverage by the Canadians or send our own people to close the loop on this. I hope we can get to it before it leaves. Can you get on this while I’m on the way to pick you up?”
“I’m on it,” was her reply. They clicked off then Susan rang up Greg Liss.
CHAPTER 11
Greg Liss had just entered Mort Lindsley’s office when his pager went off. His self-chosen mission for the day was to make himself enough of a pest to Lindsley that the boss would grant his wish to leave immediately for Yemen to de-brief Doctor Wigglesworth about The Hand of the Prophet.
When he saw that the return number was Susan Deet’s field phone, he informed Lindsley, who dialed her back and put it on his office speaker phone.
“Hello there Miss Susie,” drawled Lindsley, “I’m here with Greg. What do you have for us?”
Susan skipped conversational amenity. “This is urgent. The crate is in Canada, headed for Vancouver. It will probably be shipped by air or ocean from there to who knows where. I called to see if Greg’s old girlfriend is still connected to CSIS. Maybe she could get some help from the Canadians to find the thing before it leaves their country.”
Greg nodded to Lindsley that he still had ‘contact’ with Carole. His heart beat faster at Susan’s reference to her. It could be an opportunity for another chance with Carole. “I could find her.” He said brightly.
Mort sensed the rise in Greg. “Whoa there,” he said, taking on a fatherly stance, “Let’s all think this through for a minute. We can’t go stompin’ all over the Canadians without briefing them about this situation. It’s technically out of the FBI’s jurisdiction. We need to get input from Ryall Morgan and lots of others before we get CSIS involved.”
Greg slumped in his chair, sullen at the prospect of losing the opportunity to contact Carole.
“We don’t have time for that, Mort!” Susan Deet blurted. “The crate is probably in or near Vancouver right now. It’ll be gone out of Canada before you can get permission from anyone to go look for it.”
Mort secretly loved the youthful vigor of his charges. In a way, it did make sense to do as Susan suggested. He could ask forgiveness of the higher-ups later. “What do you hear from Mister Bob Steck?” he queried.
“I just got off the phone with him. That’s how I got the information,” Susan replied. “He’s on the way back to pick me up. Unless you divert us, we plan to come back to Washington tonight.”
Mort paused, thinking over the information he had just received. “Tell you what Miss Susie,” he started, “You and Steck come right over to Ryall Morgan’s office at Langley as soon as you get in. Greg and I will be there. We can get our heads together and plan some quick moves. In the meantime, Greg will get hold of his friend and see what we can accomplish unofficially with the help of CSIS.”
Greg Liss happily nodded agreement.
“Susan, you did a great job,” Mort added. “See you tonight.”
Deet accepted the compliment. It was at least something to show for what she had earlier reckoned to be a wasted day. Not that Steck had redeemed himself with her, but it was a start. She clicked off and finished packing.
Mort dismissed Greg then he dialed up Ryall Morgan.
_________
Paul Roche (now Hugh Coles) emerged from the airport at Mexico City at dusk. The usual flight delays and hassles did not bother him in his new persona. Flying first class and drinking copious amounts of scotch made the hassles seem almost fun. He collected his suitcase, strolled to the curb and hailed a taxi. In perfect Brit-English he gave the driver an address, then sat back to enjoy a cigarette on the way to his new home.
Half an hour later, the taxi turned in at a long driveway that wound up a steep hill, ending in a courtyard with well-tended garden borders of bougainvillea and green shrubs. Shrouded in tall, well trimmed bushes was a footpath paved with terra-cotta tiles. It led to a modest sized hacienda of adobe and wood with the customary tile roof. Inside the large wooden front door was a hallway that divided three bedrooms from a kitchen-dining area. At the back of the building was a large living room with a cathedral ceiling. Adjoining the living room on the right was a study replete with library, large desk with modern electronics built-in and a small bar. French doors opened onto a patio.
Roche passed the two smaller bedrooms and entered the master bedroom at the rear of the house. Garish painted Mexican furniture included a king size bed and a massive double dresser that was connected to an equally massive armoire. A small coffee table sat between two love-seats near a sliding door that opened on to a tiny rock-walled courtyard. This courtyard had a wooden gate leading to the main patio. A connecting door led to the middle bedroom through a big bath and shower. Roche unpacked his small suitcase, stuffing the clothes into the dresser and armoire alongside the already large wardrobe he had pre-stationed here over the past years.
Stripping to his waist and kicking off his shoes, he trekked to the study and poured himself a large scotch. Stepping out to the patio, he surveyed the magnificent view from his “mountain top villa.” Twinkling lights of small villages appeared here and there in the darkness of the hills as he faced north. To the south, the sea of lights was Mexico City and its surrounding area. He snapped on some outside lights then settled in to a chaise to sip scotch and survey his patio.
The patio was paved with tile and covered with a wooden pergola that held up a mélange of leafy vines to provide shade. To the right of the patio was a modest size swimming pool. The place was impeccably maintained, except for the pool, which was empty and dusty. As he surveyed his new digs, “Mister Hugh Coles” made a mental note to speak to the care takers first thing in the morning about getting the pool cleaned and filled.
With Bob Steck on his tail, he would not feel comfortable for a couple of days. Maybe he had just completed his last job, he mused. Oh well, he thought, it was probably time to quit pushing his luck. He had amassed enough money to sustain him for many years. Besides, being Hugh Coles would not be unpleasant.
_________
Chris Taylor knocked at the door of his mentor’s rooms. The door swung wide. A smiling woman in a business suit passed Chris in the doorway, relinquishing the door knob as she quietly left the room. He stepped back with a gentlemanly gesture.
“Good day, Christian!” proclaimed Mister Al Kafajy from his big overstuffed chair. “Have some lunch,” he invited with a sweeping gesture.
“Th-thanks,” stammered Chris. He hated it when he revealed how much the boss intimidated him.
The side-board in Al Kafajy’s suite was laden with sandwiches and fresh fruit, lemonade, fruit punch and Coke. Several empty areas on the trays indicated that others had eaten lunch already. Chris opted for focaccia and Parma ham, along with some lemonade. As Chris collected the food, the boss continued.
“There have been some positive developments in the market for the contents of the crate, Christian. There will be several potential buyers meeting together with us in Amman just as soon as we can get the goods there.”
> “Sounds good,” Chris mumbled through a mouthful of sandwich. He always enjoyed Amman, especially because he had a Jordanian girl friend who was ever pleased to see him.
After what Chris felt was too short a space of time, the boss’s face turned all business. “Exactly when?” he asked loudly.
Chris thought for a moment, trying to figure the logistics. Finally, he declared, “Next Sunday noon, at the Intercontinental Hotel.”
The boss smiled. “I know I can count on you, Chris. By the way, make it the Royal Amman Hotel. We must treat our guests well so they will be willing to spend more.”
________
Colonel Randy was seething mad. Brandt had told him everything that happened on his mission to Idaho. On top of Steck’s revelations about the crate and the realization that innocent people were getting killed because of this lousy crate of antiques, he now had to deal with abrogation of duty from the one he thought of as his son.
A few phone calls confirmed to Randy that there had been a mysterious accident at the Baker farm. Ralph Baker’s wife had come home to find her husband dead beside their driveway. The coroner had found marks on Baker’s body that were inconsistent with a simple accident or fall. Faced with that, the Coeur d’Alene police were cautiously treating it as a possible homicide while they conducted an investigation.
Everything Pullin had ever worked for could come crashing down on him if he wasn’t careful. After long moments of angry reflection, he decided to get personally involved in the solution to this problem. Maybe Steck’s visit could be turned into a positive event after all.
________
The meeting at Ryall Morgan’s office went nearly until dawn. In the end, it had been decided to dispatch Steck and Greg Liss to Yemen. The trip would start with a charter flight to Jeddah, Saudi Arabia at nine am. They would be met there by some as yet to be designated “non-governmentals” (translate; soldiers of fortune) who would get them into and back out of Yemen undetected by the authorities. This was necessary due to the time it would have taken to get them in through regular channels, channels that barely existed anyway. Steck tried to object, yawning as he did to stave off the fatigue accumulated over the past four days. Morgan brushed it aside, reminding Steck of the time-urgency of their situation. It wouldn’t be the first rest Bob had to get in an airplane.
