by David Wind
The deputy seemed to relax. He nodded. “I’d been on the job ‘bout a year and a half when Mrs. Mathews was kilt. It was bad and messy. She and the boy were heading up to...Jackson Hole, I think. The congressman has a place there.
“It was a real nasty accident,” the deputy added after a quick pause. “Fully loaded eighteen wheeler went outta control, jumped lanes, jackknifed, and hit the Mathews’ car.
“Tore the damned thing to shreds. I got to tell you, Mr. Blair, it took a half-dozen of us to get all the body parts together. We had to keep the congressman away from the scene, too. It wouldn’t a done him no good to see his family like that.”
The deputy’s description made Blair think about his own near death, and what might have been left of him after the car reached the bottom of the mountain.
“What about the driver?”
“He was in bad shape. Not physically—the man didn’t have a scratch on him. He was drivin’ a big rig, a Peterbilt cruiser, if I recall right. But he was real torn up about Mrs. Mathews and the boy.”
“What caused the truck to go out of control?”
“Best we were able to figure out was that he was comin’ ‘round a wide bend and his load shifted. The trailer jack-knifed and flipped on its side just as Mrs. Mathews’ car was parallel to it. The tractor stayed upright somehow, and Mrs. Mathews, tryin’ to miss the trailer, ended up underneath the tractor. That’s why the car was dragged so badly.”
“Sounds pretty hard,” Blair commented.
“It was. Look,” the deputy said as he opened a drawer and took out a folder. He pulled out a double sheet of paper and handed it to Blair. “This here’s a copy of the accident report. After it happened, we had so many reporters askin’ for details we had a whole bunch printed. And now, with the election and all... well, we’ve been givin’ out a bunch more again.”
Blair took the report and glanced at it briefly. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” the deputy said. “You just take it easy driving.”
“I will,” he promised as he left the office.
Outside, he leaned against the front of the building in an effort to ease the pounding in his head. He spotted the post office, diagonally across the street.
He went to the post office, after looking around and wondering if any of the people on the sidewalk were one of the ones who had been following him.
Blair had decided, yesterday in the hospital, that he didn’t want to take any chances with the tapes he’d made during the past few days. Rather than keep them with him, he would send them to his office and wait until he got back before transcribing them. Looking at the pages in his hand, he decided that he would also send a copy of the old accident report.
Looking about once again, and not finding any eyes watching him, he crossed the street, went into the post office.
As the door closed behind Blair, a dark blue pickup truck with deep-tinted windows and a single driver pulled out from the narrow alley across the street. The truck drove slowly down the block.
The truck’s left front fender was dented.
<><><>
The office on the top floor was darkened against the bright sun. Its single occupant paced in front of the large mahogany desk. In the time since he’d spoken with his contact, he’d been apprised of three very valuable items. The first was that the CIA agent who had crossed into Russia the other day was none other than the field control leader of Ruby One, Kevin Chapin.
The second item was that the CIA recalled Chapin to Virginia and he was expected in the States within the next twenty-four hours. The third item, and the most important, was the improbability that Chapin had learned anything of significance from Colonel Davidov. Still, Chapin would have to be observed, until they were sure he knew nothing.
The traitor’s wife, Titania Basilova, was undergoing questioning by specialists of the KGB. If she had any knowledge of her husband’s traitorous dealings, it would be only a matter of time before she revealed those secrets. Yet, it was an accepted fact the woman was as much a dupe as the KGB itself had been for so many years, concerning Colonel Davidov.
The man paused in his pacing to look at his watch. It was exactly twelve o’clock. He had two more minutes to wait.
He went to the window and looked down. The government buildings were emptying for lunch. The animated miniature figures below looked like ants scattering out of their nests: so many mindless people wandering about, existing, without knowing what lay in their future. His derision of them grew, and knew he had to hold himself back. He could not allow his emotions to take over.
The phone rang at two minutes after twelve. The call he had been expecting had been routed through three different exchanges in a call-forwarding pattern.
The man went to his desk and, following a habitual sequence, pushed the scrambler button and the speakerphone button before saying, “Yes.”
“I received word to call.” The voice was flat, unemotional, and American.
“Kevin Chapin is on his way to Langley. We want to know everything he does, no matter how inconsequential you think his words or actions to be. Is that understood?”
“Yes.”
“Reports are to be given daily to your regular contact number. You will speak on the tape.”
“Understood.”
Sokova disconnected and sat down in his chair. He knew the person who had called; but the caller had no idea with whom he’d spoken. All the caller knew was his contact number and that whatever instructions he received, he was to carry them out explicitly and without question.
It was a safe way, Sokova thought. Only three people in the world knew his actual identity. Only a half-dozen other people even knew the Sokova code name and operation; the man who had called was not one of those.
Sokova also knew that he had to make sure Kevin Chapin would not join the elite group who knew.
The phone rang again. Sokova pressed the two buttons. “Yes?”
“Blue stone,” came another voice, this one so markedly unaccented that it stood out.
“White star,” Sokova replied. “What news?”
“Subject is in transit to consulate in Helsinki. I will keep him under surveillance until flight departure.”
“Very good.”
He waited a moment longer before picking up the phone. He dialed a seven-digit number and pressed his two buttons. The phone was answered on the fourth ring.
“White star,” Sokova said.
“Bright light,” came the reply.
“We are operational.” Sokova hung up abruptly.
Sokova looked at the geo-political map on the far wall. He followed the latitudinal line until his eyes settled on Helsinki, which was parallel to Leningrad.
Soon, he told himself, soon.
<><><>
Chapter Five
Cheltenham, Tennessee Tuesday, 11:00 a.m.
Eighteen hours after leaving Wyoming, Blair found himself in one of those perverse Tennessee towns, somewhere in God’s country between Nashville and Chattanooga, named after a city in England. Blair had always accepted the New England and even Virginian cities and towns named after their counterparts in England; but, to see the same names in Tennessee, and listen to the southern twang, seemed more than just a little incongruous.
Smiling at the perversity of his thoughts, he pulled into a parking space in front of an old clapboard and brick two-story building that served as City Hall for Cheltenham, Tennessee.
Blair sat behind the wheel and stared at the building. According to the accident report he’d picked up in Wyoming, Cheltenham was James Smirley’s hometown: Smirley was the truck driver who had driven the vehicle that had killed Lynn and Robin Mathews.
As he stifled a yawn, he checked his recorder. He reached for the car door, but stopped, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He had been on the move since leaving the post office in Lander. He was tired.
He’d been lucky to catch the afternoon flight from Wyoming to Denver. On the flight to Denver
, with thoughts of his near death uppermost in his mind, Blair had decided to act surreptitiously in everything he did.
When his flight had landed in the airport hub of the Southwest, Blair made reservations for a flight to Washington, DC. Then he’d booked a flight to Atlanta with a connecting flight to Chattanooga, and Nashville. The flight to Atlanta would depart a half hour before the D. C. flight.
When he’d completed his machinations, he’d called Washington and spoken with his researcher, Leslie Brannigan.
After telling Brannigan of mailing the tapes, he’d asked her to go over them as soon as they came in. Then he told her he was going to Tennessee, and would FAX a copy of the Mathews’ family accident report as soon as he hung up.
He’d asked her to make it a priority to get the information on James Smirley by the time he landed in Tennessee.
When he’d finished he’d waited in the Denver airport, spending most of the time checking around him, trying to see if anyone was watching him or following him. He wasn’t sure, but he’d thought he was in the clear.
Fifteen minutes before his Atlanta flight, he’d gone to the gate for the phony flight to DC, dropped his bag off at the counter, and went into the bathroom. He waited three minutes and came out. When he was as certain as possible that no one was watching him, he’d slipped into the center of a group of people who had just arrived, and walked away with them.
He’d made the Atlanta flight with three minutes to spare.
Continuing with his covert plan, he’d left the plane in Chattanooga, instead of Nashville.
In Chattanooga, he’d again tried to keep check on the people around him. He had no inner sensations of being followed. On the drive to Cheltenham, he’d not seen the same car behind him for any length of time and believed he’d made it without being followed.
So far, so good, Blair thought as he put the recorder in his pocket and got out of the rental car. This time he was driving a silver and black Ford.
Spotting a pay phone near the door of City Hall, he went to it and dialed Washington, using his credit card.
Brannigan answered on the third ring.
“Well?” Blair said.
“I miss you, too,” Brannigan replied good-naturedly.
Blair smiled. Leslie’s voice always affected him like soothing honey. He remembered their whirlwind affair fondly and only regretted his desires for the future had been too far apart from hers. But from the ashes of passion had come a working relationship that each was comfortable with.
“I’ll be back soon. What did you find?”
“Cut and dried. I’m sorry, Joel, but I think you took a long flight for nothing. James Smirley died of a heart attack four months after the accident.”
Blair looked over his shoulder. The sun was an hour past its zenith. His head started throbbing again. “What else?”
“Smirley was cleared of any wrongdoing in the accident. Mechanical failure was the verdict. The coupling system between the tractor and the trailer snapped because of load shift. The equipment was old but within DOT standards.”
“A dead end,” Blair said, half to himself.
“Joel, what are you looking for?” Leslie asked.
“I don’t know,” Blair admitted. “A lever, something to help me find out what makes Mathews tick…to get past that shield of perfection he carries around with him.”
“Maybe there isn’t anything to see behind it. Joel, have you considered that perhaps the man you see is just what he appears to be?”
Blair thought back to the interview, and to the emotions on Mathews’ face. “He believes he is, but there’s something else,” Blair said emphatically. “I can smell it.”
Blair looked around again and saw no one. “What else did you find?” he asked in a softer voice.
“Very little. According to the records, Smirley was pretty much a homegrown man. Born in Chattanooga, his parents moved to Cheltenham when he was five. He graduated high school there and joined the Army. When he got out he became a truck driver. He was never married and has no surviving family. Pretty dull person, actually.”
“Where did you get this information from?”
“My friend at the Bureau.”
“I do miss you, Leslie,” Blair finally admitted.
“Only when you’ve had three drinks and are getting into bed for the night...alone. Are you coming back now?”
“Tomorrow. I’m here, I might as well find out what this guy was like. See you tomorrow.”
Before the phone was in its cradle, Blair’s thoughts took off. Something about Leslie’s information didn’t sit right. It was too neatly a tied-up package. He tried to dismiss the feeling because it seemed to be leading to another dead end. He was getting very tired of dead ends.
Blair went into City Hall, and to the county clerk’s office. The sign on the door read Hiram Withers. Blair knocked once and stepped inside, his press card already in his hand.
Hiram Withers, a tall and bald man wearing bifocals set securely on a high-bridged nose, nodded at Blair’s press card. “What can I do for you?” he asked, his soft accent that of a northern-educated southerner.
“I’m doing a story on a truck driver named James Smirley. I need some background information on the man.” Blair watched the clerk’s expression go from relaxed and helpful to pinched. Withers’ lips thinned, and his eyes turned cold. “Don’t you people ever give up? The man died almost four years ago. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Blair shrugged. Withers’ reaction wasn’t unusual in his experience. People either became gregarious, defensive, or closed-mouthed when faced with a newspaper reporter.
“Mr. Withers, James Smirley was involved in an accident that caused the deaths of the wife and son of a candidate for the vice presidency of the United States. Now, I apologize if I’m disturbing you, but I get paid to do a job, and learning about James Smirley is part of it.”
The clerk held Blair’s gaze for a few seconds before relenting. “I know,” Withers said. “And talking to you is what I get paid for, I guess. All right, Mr. Blair…is it?” Blair nodded as he put away his press card and pushed the little red button of his recorder.
“I didn’t know Smirley myself, but since his death, I’ve come to know a little about the man. From what I understand, he was a quiet person, didn’t have a whole lot of business with the folks around town. He lived about ten miles from here in Fernbush Valley. He had no criminal record, and all we have on file here, is an autopsy report, which I’m sure you’ll want a copy of, and the property tax records for his house.”
Blair nodded. “I’d appreciate looking at them.”
Withers nodded. “It’ll be a few minutes.”
Blair shut off the recorder as Withers exited the office, thinking how predictable the scene had been. For some reason, not entirely bad, people in small towns always rose to the defense of “their own,” even if they were dead.
Blair looked around. On the far wall were two maps. One was a zoning map of Cheltenham; the other was a political map. He walked over to them and looked at the listings until he found the coordinates for Fernbush Valley. Tracing the vertical coordinate, he followed his finger until it hovered above Fernbush Valley. He made a mental note of the route number to get there.
Then he looked at the town. City Hall was in the center. The high school was three blocks away on Oak Ridge Avenue. He traced Oak Ridge Avenue to the end, and then backtracked to City Hall. As he was trying to find Cheltenham Industrial Park, the place where Fullerton Trucking was located, the clerk returned.
“Here you are, Mr. Blair,” he said, handing Blair a copy of the single-page autopsy report.
Blair glanced at it. It was skimpy, but contained all necessary information. James N. M. I. Smirley had been born thirty-five years and seven months before his death. He died of congenital heart failure. The autopsy report heading was from the Nashville coroner’s office.
“He died in Nashville, not here?” Blair asked, again turni
ng on his recorder.
“That’s right. We got a copy of it when his lawyer came to settle up his estate.”
“Was there much?”
Withers shook his head and pointed to the spot on the map Blair had already seen. “Just the house and property. Worth about sixty-five thousand.”
“Who got the proceeds?”
“It was donated to the church—all except the lawyer’s seven thousand-dollar fee.”
“That was nice.”
Withers shrugged. “Smirley had no kin.”
“Cheltenham Industrial Park. Where is that?”
Withers stepped close to the map. He put his finger on City Hall and traced the main street through town. “This map is about ten years out of date. They built this place six years ago. Here...when you cross the tracks here, take the first turn. You go about half a mile, and you’ll see it on the left. Used to be a grain storage complex.”
“Thank you, Mr. Withers, you’ve been a big help.”
“Hope you find what you’re looking for,” Withers said. So do I, Blair said to himself But when he reached the door, he paused and turned back. “Mr. Withers, what was James Smirley like?”
The clerk shook his head. “Afraid I can’t tell you that. As I said, I never met the man.”
“Is the newspaper office nearby?”
Withers shook his head. “The local paper went out ‘bout nine years ago. We get the Gannet paper now. Office is in Greenville, ‘bout thirty miles east.”
“Thank you. Oh, what was Smirley’s lawyer’s name?”
Withers glanced down at the papers in his hand. “John Rasmussen, from New York.”
“Thank you again,” Blair said. He left the clerk’s office, shut off the recorder, and went to the front door.
When he stepped outside, and even before he released the door, he glanced around cautiously. Although the people and the area were unfamiliar, he wanted to see if there was anyone looking at him and if one of those faces was similar to a random face in Wyoming. He didn’t see a person glance in his direction.
