by James Ward
“Thanks for that.” Steck was finally feeling better about having the JUMP team as support.
“Is Susan still in the room?”
“I’m here, Bob.” Susan Deet answered.
“Have you got any more information on the whereabouts of Roche?”
“Nothing definitive, except I am convinced he’s in Mexico. Our people there are watching for any sign of him.”
“I remembered a conversation many years ago with him about deep cover. I think he may be somewhere near Mexico City,” Bob offered.
“Got it,” Susan replied, “a pseudo-Brit living near Mexico City.”
Steck sat back in his chair, the wheels spinning in his head. “My guess is he will be posing as a well healed bachelor, probably into golf.”
“Thanks. We’ll be on it twenty-four-seven.”
“I also have the gut-feel that he knows a lot more about the present issue than we may think.” Steck knew Paul Roche well enough to figure he would not be able to resist making some big score, if there was one to be made. It was pure speculation on his part, but worth keeping an eye out.
_________
Hugh Coles had just finished his morning workout. Emerging from the shower, he sat to eat the breakfast his maid had prepared. Sipping coffee to wash down some toast and bacon, he checked the front page of the morning paper. His eyes stopped at a small window advert in the left bottom of the front page. It read Seeking original 1963 Sunbeam Tiger in mint condition. Highest price offered. He tossed the toast, drank the coffee down and went searching for his cell phone. When he found it, he dialed the number from the advert. A familiar voice answered.
“Good day to you sir,” he said in his best slurry Brit accent. “I happen to possess a silver-grey version of the vehicle you have requested. I would be willing to sell it for the right price.”
“When can I see it, and where?” asked the voice.
“Do you know the Palacio de Bellas Artes?”
“Why yes, that is a convenient place for me,” the voice replied.
“Meet me in front, at three pm today?”
“Very well, sir.” The voice clicked off.
Roche telephoned a taxi, dressed and shortly left for the meeting place. The voice on the telephone had been that of Alberto Montenero, a paid intermediary used on occasion by folks in the spy business. He was known and respected for the utmost discretion. The actual meeting would take place in a pre-arranged place about two blocks from the Palacio de Bellas Artes. It was a small café that catered to upper-crust émigrés. Alberto would not be the contact, nor did he know the meeting place. He would have made text contact only with a third party whose identity was known only to Roche. Alberto’s involvement was concluded with the text message. He would receive payment for his services via wire transfer from one account in the Caymans to another.
On the way, Roche’s thoughts were at once troubled and intrigued. He was troubled at disruption of his new life just days after it had been established. He was intrigued that some new deal was in the offing, one that was important enough to cause contact to be made.
________
Susan Deet made it to the Dartmouth campus at sundown, after telephone conversation with the professor’s wife. She was surprised to learn that Missus Wigglesworth had not heard from her husband. The gentle woman had agreed to an interview during the evening hours, sounding as gracious as Greg had reported in the brief Susan studied during the flight. Susan had dressed ‘Ivy League’ in a plaid skirt with white blouse buttoned high at the collar, knee-high socks and loafers. Deet feigned an interest in orchids, which prompted a tour of the solarium at the Wigglesworth residence. By the time tea was served, Missus Wigglesworth seemed relaxed and eager to be interviewed by such a nice young woman as Susan.
“Well, Missus Wigglesworth, I want to first tell you that Greg Liss has met with your husband and that they had a very good discussion.”
“How nice,” the old woman replied. “I do expect a call from my husband next week, when he gets to Amman. I’m sure he will have been glad to speak to Mister Liss.”
“You know I am here on official business,” Susan began. “Today, I need to complete a background check on Nancy Kinnear.” She paused, watching keenly for any non-verbal response. Missus Wigglesworth’s eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly. She looked briefly to her lap and straightened her skirt. Her composure, if it slipped at all, was immediately regained. Smiling, her eyes met Susan’s as she said gently, “Ah yes, my husband’s protégé.”
“She is his protégé?” Susan asked, as if declaring something new. “Given the number of degrees and published works she has accumulated, I would have supposed the more proper term to be colleague.”
“Yes, of course,” Missus Wigglesworth replied absently.
Susan decided to use silence for a moment to see of it elicited any further comment. The silence became a bit awkward. Finally the older woman leveled a friendly gaze at Susan.
“My dear,” she said, “one of the great lessons I have learned in life is that relationships progress through many stages. Men, especially aging intellectuals like my husband who remain vital need to have relationships with attractive women who will challenge them in healthy ways. If they do not have such relationships they will naturally gravitate to either unhealthy relationships or vegetative ones.”
“I see,” said Susan, allowing another pause designed to keep the lady talking.
“No, you don’t see,” replied Missus Wigglesworth calmly. “I suspect you have not accumulated the life experience to fully appreciate my comments.”
This time the pause caused Susan discomfort. Before she could conjure a counter-move, the older woman continued. “As you may have observed, my physical abilities have waned considerably.” Susan’s eyes betrayed agreement as they involuntarily fell to the gnarled hands resting in Missus Wigglesworth’s lap.
“Please do not misconstrue what I am saying, Susan. My husband still loves me every bit as much as he did when we married and I love him with all my heart. We have had and still have a wonderful life together. Time was when my love of the outdoors and his love of digging up old things were quite compatible. We shared many years of closeness physically, intellectually and in our hearts. As we aged, we still shared the same love but the physical aspect became burdensome for me.”
“I fail to see how this….” Susan began to say.
“Please don’t interrupt.” Missus Wigglesworth’s gaze was still soft but her tone was determined. “I have something important to tell you, young lady.” Susan sat back in her chair and uncrossed her legs, trying to correct the wrong move she had just made.
“No two people age in the same ways or at the same time,” the older woman continued. “As my infirmity increased, my husband was at the peak of his personal power. Personal power will one day pass for every one, but while it is strong, a person needs to have ego-boosting activity to support their sense of that power. Nancy Kinnear became my surrogate, of sorts. She filled the void, so to speak, while our marriage relationship waited for my husband’s personal power to play out its course.”
Missus Wigglesworth leaned toward Susan and gestured with a wave of her hand. “Now don’t be misled in thinking that there was physical intimacy between my husband and Nancy Kinnear. Nothing of the sort was even contemplated. I’m sure of it. Nancy had her young lovers for that. Now that my husband has matured and released much of his male ego, our relationship together has deepened in ways past telling. The sum of it is, Susan, that Nancy performed a very important role in my husband’s life, a role that I always welcomed. That role is now waning and will soon be over.”
Missus Wigglesworth sat back in silence for a moment then she added. “Did you understand me?”
“I understand that you are an extremely wise and prudent woman.” Susan was sincere.
“You missed the best part.” Missus Wigglesworth smiled. “I am a happy and contented woman.”
Susan did not think it
proper to reveal Nancy Kinnear’s passing. The professor could handle that.
“Can you tell me anything else about Ms. Kinnear, such as her early life, her personal interests her hobbies?” Susan knew there was more to learn.
“Nancy was born in Canada. In Saskatoon, I believe. Her parents were wealthy. She told me they were in oil exploration and leasing. She graduated from a university in Toronto. Before she came to Dartmouth, she trained with the Canadian security service. She left that after a failed love affair.” Missus Wigglesworth paused a while, seemingly deep in thought. “The only other thing I know about Nancy is that her family lost their fortune a few years back. It has been hard for her to maintain her wealthy lifestyle on the earnings from a few books plus the paltry money she earns at archaeological digs, but somehow she carries it off.”
After a pause, Susan asked, “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“Yes. Nancy is not a happy person. That’s a shame. She has a lot of potential, but she’s not happy.”
Susan thanked Missus Wigglesworth for the information and for her candor.
On the drive back to Manchester, Susan spent an hour on the secure phone talking with Mort Lindsley. At her hotel, she stayed up until four am writing a detailed report, which she emailed to Mort.
“You did a great job, Susie.” Lindsley was sincere.
CHAPTER 18
Chris Taylor’s brief nap was interrupted by a ringing telephone. He sat up, shook his head from side to side to chase away the fog, and answered. “This is Taylor.”
“Allah is good.” It was Ahmed. “The gentleman is now en-route to Amman. He should arrive at the appointed time. I trust you will meet him at the airport.” It was a declaration, not a question.
“Yes, I will meet him.” Chris wondered if that sounded petulant. He hoped it did.
“I wish to meet with you beforehand.”
“Okay,” said Chris, cursing in thought. “When will you arrive in Amman?”
“I am in the lobby,” was the terse reply. “Stay in your room. I will be there directly.” Ahmed clicked off.
“What an annoying man,” thought Chris, as he quickly dressed in the formal suit he would wear for the rest of the day. He had just tied his silk cravat when Ahmed knocked at the door.
“As salaam alaikum,” uttered Ahmed as he entered. He was dressed in traditional Arab garb. The big knife tucked into his sash had a polished silver handle encrusted with semi precious jewels. It seemed too big for Ahmed’s squat frame.
“Alaikum asalaam,” was the reply from the adjoining room. Chris remained quiet; realizing that Ahmed’s greeting using the formal form was not intended for him, but rather for the guard who was Ahmed’s Muslim brother.
Satisfied that Chris had not offended him, Ahmed acknowledged him with “Hello Chris.”
Chris stood facing Ahmed, not offering him a seat. “I have much to do today, Ahmed. What did you want to talk about?”
“Did you contact that Kinnear woman?” Ahmed’s piercing eyes upset Chris’s inner calm.
“I tried but was not successful.” Chris sensed some tacit move afoot.
“She is dead,” said Ahmed, almost absently. He looked around the room as if trying to find a suitable chair.
In the silence that followed, Chris’ mind raged, full of anger at this man who seemed so pleased to play head games with him. He waited until the urge to rant had subsided, deciding to withhold the fact that he had spoken with her apparent killer. In his best British nonchalance, he said, “Too bad. How did she die?”
“She was shot fighting the men from America who came to Yemen to find out about our prize. That is where she obtained the photo.”
“Are the Americans dead also?” Chris felt his color rising.
“Unfortunately they are alive. It appears they escaped into Saudi Arabia. We do not know where, exactly.”
Chris resisted the urge to fling a barrage of questions at Ahmed. Now that it was certain that American agents were on the trail, he would need to plan carefully and initiate some actions. “Thank you for the information, Ahmed,” Chris said in even tones. “I have much to do,” he said, urging Ahmed towards the door. What is your room number? I‘ll call you when the gentleman is settled.”
“No need,” Ahmed said icily as he closed the door behind him. “I will see you at dinner in Mister Al Kafajy’s suite.”
Chris shuffled in the closet and came out with a small suitcase. He left the room in the care of Tariq, moving almost at a trot down the hall. He stopped at a hotel room remote from his, produced a key from his pocket and entered, locking the door securely behind him. In the privacy of his second room, he unpacked the secure encoding machine and set up the satphone connection. Typing and sending several messages, he then made a voice call.
He lit a cigarette, waiting for an answer. “Who is this?” a drawling man’s voice questioned.
“This is Chris Taylor. I need to arrange a secure conversation with Mister Roche right away.”
“Hell, I don’t even know where that rascal is holed-up.” was the reply.
“Find him!” Chris half shouted. “I will call you at three am, your time.”
“Negative. It will take a few days to contact him.” The man sounded sincere enough.
“Then try someone else. I need to get some action today on an important matter.”
“Maybe I could help.”
Chris contemplated that for a moment. He quickly decided not to trust a hayseed with a limp to find and kill a bunch of U.S. agents.
“Not this time, Blake.” He said.
“I’ll do what I can, Mister Taylor. Call me at three and I’ll have a plan.”
Blake smiled as he clicked off the line. He dialed and waited. “Proctor,” The voice answered.
“Mister Proctor, are you still plannin’ to meet Roche in Mexico today?”
_________
Ryall Morgan, Mort Lindsley and Susan Deet sat in Mort’s office. The speaker phone was connected with Robert MacFergus, one of Morgan’s friends and the head of CSIS in Ottawa. Susan read aloud her report about Nancy Kinnear. At Morgan’s insistence, she had also drawn the connection to Carole Hinson, the CSIS agent that had gone missing in Idaho.
It took a while for MacFergus to absorb what he had just heard. The silence was palpable. Morgan held up a hand, silently asking Lindsley and Deet to let the silence remain.
MacFergus finally said, “Ryall, could you pick up the phone?”
Morgan and Lindsley exchanged looks. Deet lowered her eyes, studying the table. Lindsley motioned assent.
“Speaker’s off, Bob,” Ryall said, picking up the phone receiver and clicking the speaker button.
MacFergus spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. “Mort, this is quite sensitive. Can I have your absolute word that this conversation will go no further than necessary to solve your case?”
“Yes, Bob you have my word. Before it’s over we may both have to rely on each other’s confidence, if that’s where you’re going.”
“I am, Ryall.” MacFergus paused, as if trying to think of a reason not to continue. Finally he began. “Do you folks keep an eye on an organization called Free Nation?”
“We know them,” Morgan replied.
“Well, we have a case open that involves that group. We suspect they have been moving goods illegally in and out of Canada through border crossings at Vermont, Idaho, Montana and Washington State. Five years ago, some antiquities from an archaeological dig in Turkey showed up in Montreal, consigned to a professor at Dartmouth University in New Hampshire. We were led to believe they may have been smuggled into Canada by Free Nation.”
“Did the goods get delivered into the U.S?” Morgan asked.
“No, Ryall, they did not. We confiscated them and returned them to the Turkish government. After that incident, we assigned one of our operatives to infiltrate the archaeological organization responsible for the dig.”
“Nancy Kinnear?” Morgan point
ed out the obvious.
“Yes.” MacFergus continued. “More recently, we assigned Carole Hinson to surveillance of Free Nation. Her assignment included infiltration, and of course required some travel in your country. She has been missing for a few days now. We have reason to believe she may have been witness to a murder by one of the members of Free Nation near Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. At least that was her last reporting point. We fear she may have fallen victim to foul play. I have a report that we will offer to share with the local police at Coeur d’Alene, whom we believe are investigating the demise of a local farmer.”
“I think this should involve the FBI, Bob. We would appreciate if you keep the local police out of this for now.” Morgan waved off Lindsley, who had snapped to attention at the mention of his organization. Before MacFergus could go on, Morgan added, “I think we should conduct a joint investigation, but first I would like to request a detailed conference between our two organizations. At the moment we are in hot pursuit of another matter, but maybe next week we could get together, perhaps by videophone. Would that be okay?”
“Of course it would, Ryall and the sooner the better. One of our agents has been killed and another is missing. I don’t want to let much time go by.”
“My secretary will call you in the morning to set it up.” Morgan said. “And thanks for your candor, Bob. It will not be forgotten and will not be compromised.”
“Right-oh, Ryall,” He replied. “I hope we can resolve this together.” MacFergus hung up the phone. He sat for a few minutes making notes, hoping he had done the right thing.
_________
Bob Steck landed at Amman about noontime. Thanks to Grundstrom, the archaeologists would be landing in Aden about the same time. Bob had engaged Grundstrom to deliver his charges then join him in Amman as soon as possible.
Steck was met by a limo service. The driver delivered him to the Intercontinental Hotel, where there would be rooms for both Steck and Grundstrom. Strolling across the lobby, Steck noticed that the Intercontinental had become rather seedy in appearance since his last stay. His room was also rather dingy. He made a mental note to seek a different place to stay next time.
