by Ace Collins
“No, it’s you I need to speak with.”
Klasser took a step to his left and waved. “Then call my office and set something up for later in the week.”
Beals followed the man out the door and into the bright morning sun. Klasser headed toward a parking garage. Just before entering, he stopped and slowly turned back to face his stalker.
“I am not used to having a shadow. If you persist, I will call security.”
“Actually,” Beals said, “you are much more used to being the shadow.”
Klasser shrugged. “You seem to be a strange man who has equally strange ideas. I am a wealth manager. You must have me mistaken for someone else. Now leave me be.” After waving his hand and rolling his eyes, he turned and continued his trek into the garage. Beals allowed him five steps.
“The Sykes report. You wrote it when assigned to Aman. The detailed information you and your agents gathered revealed the identities of five Saudis who were actually in the United States working for the big oil companies but were also spying for the Chinese. Thanks to your investigation, false information was fed to those operatives and they were disgraced. It was a clean job that required no blood.”
Klasser glanced over his shoulder but kept walking. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“By this afternoon, you will have requested and received a complete file on me. You’ll know what I did while I was in the agency and you’ll find out how I found out about you. You should also know that I was the one who covered the mistake that would’ve outed you to the entire world. If I hadn’t done so, you would have become nothing more than a desk jockey. Or maybe, if the wrong people had found out first, not be breathing today. We will talk. The question becomes, will it be now or later?”
Satisfied with his performance, Beals turned and casually strolled out of the garage. He was halfway across a quiet city park, two full blocks away from the garage, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was much larger than Klasser’s. Experience told him not to turn around.
“You’re either very bold or very stupid,” a deep voice informed him.
Still looking straight ahead, the detective nodded. “I’m neither.”
“If what you said is true, why do you think I won’t kill you?”
“NHS.”
“NHS?”
“Not his style,” Beals explained.
“You want to talk to Klasser. Is this about the old report?”
“No. Something potentially much better than that.”
“Do you see that bench about fifty feet to your right?”
“Yes.”
“Go to it and sit on the far end. He’ll join you in a few minutes. Don’t look at him when he speaks. Do you understand?”
Beals nodded and, when he felt the hand slip from his shoulder, made his way toward the bench. Spotting a Washington Post on top of a trashcan, he picked it up and, after shaking off a few peanut hulls, took a seat. He’d completed three stories on the front page when Klasser joined him. Neither spoke for five more minutes. Beals continued reading while the other man tossed peanuts to a very interested squirrel.
“You said your name is Beals,” Klasser began, pulling a file folder from his briefcase and pretending to read.
“Your memory has long served you very well.”
“You are not with the CIA?”
“Left ten years ago.” Noting a woman walking her large white poodle, he turned back to his newspaper. Neither man spoke until she’d passed.
“Then if you are not with the CIA, why seek me out now?”
“It’s about your brother. I work for an Arkansas-based attorney who’s looking into the matter of his death. I just want to know why your brother was killed.”
Setting the file in his lap, Klasser flipped a page. “Everyone has read the story. It was a hate crime, pure and simple. We Jews have been targets for centuries. You know that. Even your former agency has been guilty from time to time of going after us simply because of our ethnic background. Let us not go into what Richard Nixon said about us.”
Beals turned to page three of the paper, casually glancing in both directions before continuing. “Do you believe it was only a hate crime?”
“Why not? Have you read the case files?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know why I would not question the verdict.”
The detective pressed on. “You called your brother the day before he was murdered.”
Klasser nodded.
“That was not in the files. I found it strange that the FBI and others wouldn’t have dug deeper. I know the folks who worked with your brother would have loved to talk. How do you think I knew of the call, yet the investigating agencies missed it?”
“Knowing of my call would only have put another noose around Jones’ neck. One noose was sufficient.”
“Meaning you weren’t going to blow your cover if the case was airtight.”
“I would not have blown my cover even if it had allowed Jones to walk out of prison. Some things are more important than family. You see, for me my country is my family too. Serving my country is my life.”
Beals shifted slightly to his right and folded the newspaper to the next page. Then, after he was sure no one was watching, said, “Your call upset your brother. Your calls had never upset him before.”
Still pretending to read the report, Klasser said, “Brothers often have disputes. It is as old as time itself. Have you heard of Cain and Abel?”
Beals didn’t need a history lesson. “Disputes that require one of the brothers to leave work early, breaking a routine that he never broke before? Disputes that required making a late-night appointment with an FBI agent? An agent who died later that very night?”
“What is your point?” Klasser’s tone became terse.
Beals put down the front section and picked up the sports section. “You told your brother something that was very important. What you told him led to his death. This was no simple hate crime. There was no conspiracy to kill Jewish American families of FAA employees to stir up fear in this country. That was a myth spun by my government to help push an agenda to consolidate power in the hands of the executive branch.
“Even if the FBI doesn’t care, I care. I want to know what you told Albert on September 10 that cost him his life.”
35
KLASSER’S TONE REMAINED STEADY AND ASSERTIVE. “You are fishing and I do not understand why. Jones killed four members of my family. He was caught. Why he did it is no longer important as he will soon die. The score will be settled.”
“Then what does it hurt to tell me what you told Albert that sent him to Eric Johnson?”
Klasser was blunt. “You know the answer.”
“Ah, yes, national security.” Beals laughed. “I saved your skin once. You’re still undercover and breathing, thanks to me.”
“Who screwed up?” Klasser asked. “How did you know my name?”
“Vanderberg gave me the report. He failed to black out your name in one place. I got rid of it.”
“Vanderberg is a fool.”
“No argument there.”
“Still, your protecting me is no reason for me to give you the information you seek. You know that as well as I do. You were doing your job, covering the rather large aft section of an idiot.”
“Joshua, I wouldn’t care a thing about what you told Albert except the man I work for is convinced Omar Jones was framed.”
Klasser didn’t answer. Instead he pulled out a Blackberry and looked at the screen. “So your boss, Kent McGee, has no problem ignoring DNA, fingerprints, and the story of a witness who cannot forget.”
Beals was amused. How much more did Klasser already know about him? “I’m betting you could plant evidence like that in less than a minute.”
Klasser smiled. “It might take a bit longer.”
Seeing the first dent in the man’s armor, Beals pushed on. “Did you go to the trial?”
“No, my brothers did,
but I did not.”
“What kept you away? Guilt?”
Klasser went mute and looked more intently at the report he held in his hands. When he finally answered, he turned his head and stared at his adversary. “Yes, I did not want to face that my information led to his death. Are you satisfied?”
“No.” Beals looked down and acted as if he was reading a story on the Washington Redskins dropping another game. “I’m not here to drag you through old memories for the purpose of opening wounds. I need information in case Jones is innocent. I don’t want to see another innocent man die like your brother, his wife, and their children did. They were all innocent. In fact, I’m guessing that your brother’s actions on the day he died, if he had gotten to finish them, would’ve been considered heroic—not just by your country but by mine too.”
Beals hoped his words had stunned Klasser, penetrated his heart, but he knew he dealt with a man who was used to death as part of his work. Yet as seconds became minutes and Klasser remained silent, Beals began to hope.
“You are close, Mr. Beals. In fact I think you have figured it out. Let me spread some light on what you now suspect. In the weeks before 9/11, there was a lot of chatter on our channels. We actually overheard talk of flying the airliners into specific U.S. buildings. I called my four most trusted contacts who had connections to Al-Qaeda. Three of the four felt the information was correct. The one who did not was an Iraqi who had worked with us for five years. His name was Abdul Arif. He had gone underground and had met Osama bin Laden. Arif had bin Laden’s trust. His information was usually accurate. So I sat on the story for a day.”
Klasser paused as a group of children ran by with their mother trailing five paces behind. The exasperated woman was begging her brood to slow down, but they ignored her. Only when they were well out of hearing range did he continue.
“On September fifth, I took the story to my contact at the CIA.”
“Let me guess. Vanderberg.”
“Yes, that jackass laughed it off. I doubt if he even took a second look at what we had.”
“So you told your brother, hoping his connections with the FAA would put their folks on alert.”
“I did. And his calls to the FAA were disregarded. He did have a man he trusted at the FBI. I had done some research on Johnson. He was dependable and had the guts to push information to higher sources. Albert made the call and set up a meeting. By that time I was sure the plot was set for either the eleventh or the twelfth. You know the rest. The meeting never took place. My brother and his family were slaughtered and Johnson died in a car crash. I have no doubt his car was sabotaged.”
“Your team, the group that gave you the information. Why did Mossad set it up?”
“It was a practical matter. We were to protect Israeli business interests in the United States by preventing attacks on them. We knew that it was just a matter of time before terrorists began hitting big targets in the United States. Bin Laden was outraged over the U.S. building bases in an area of Saudi Arabia he viewed as holy ground.”
“The man who told you the 9/11 intelligence was faulty. What happened to him?”
“Arif drifted away. One day he was easy to contact, the next he was gone. The final time we used him was 2003. Last time I spoke with him via phone was a year or two later.”
“What does he look like?”
The Mossad agent shook his head. “We have no photos and I saw him only once. In a dark alley outside of Paris. He was perhaps three inches short of six feet, wiry build, a full but well-trimmed beard, hair to the bottom of his ears, dark eyes. Because of the bad light, I could not make out any more details. If I saw him on the street today, I would not know him from a hundred other of his people. The only real identifying factor that set him apart was that his English was perfect. He spoke as well as you and with no hint of an accent.”
“Could you get me his file?”
“Some parts of it, but others are still classified.”
“I’m more interested in personal information.”
“I can get that to you.”
Beals reached into his pocket and retrieved a card. He started to hand it to Klasser but the man had already put his report in his briefcase and gotten up to leave. Looking over his shoulder he smiled. “Ivy Beals, we are now fully aware of your home address, cell number, and all seven of your email addresses. We do not need your card to provide you with information. You will have it before a day has passed. Now just sit there for five more minutes. And remember, we spoke only of investments, if we spoke at all.”
Klasser headed back toward the parking garage, acting as if his morning schedule had not been interrupted. Turning to the arts section, Beals went back to reading the Post. Ten minutes later, after completing a story that contained an interview with Brad Pitt, he got up, tossed the newspaper back in the trash, and headed toward the lot where he had left his rental. He was almost to the park’s edge when he saw the woman with the poodle approaching him.
“Excuse me,” she announced as her dog barged into the investigator’s path.
Forced to stop, Beals replied, “No problem. Nice looking dog.”
“Thank you.” She smiled. “I noticed that you dropped this envelope as you left your seat. It must have fallen out of your pocket as you read your newspaper.”
Not questioning the woman’s obvious mistake, he took the plain white envelope and dropped it into his coat pocket. “Thank you.”
She nodded, yanked the poodle back to her side, and walked off. He now knew why the woman and the dog had moved up and down the sidewalk. He smiled and continued to his car. Once inside, he pulled the envelope out of his pocket. There was no writing on the outside. Slipping his finger under the flap, he carefully tore it open. Inside were a piece of paper and a key. He slid them out. The key was small, generic. He opened the folded paper and read the one handwritten line: “Central bus station, green lockers, #148, 5:00 p.m.”
Klasser worked quickly. Beals wondered how many of his operatives, other than the poodle walker, had been watching them. How many were watching him now. A chill gripped him as he buckled his seat belt and started the car.
36
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN WEEKS, LIJE WAS RUNNING late. He’d overslept. Then, just as he was about to leave, McGee had called to update him on the Jones case. On his way to the car, he’d gotten too close to a ladder stored in the garage. A metal corner tore his shirt, forcing him to switch to a backup. And on this day of all days. He fumed as he drove.
The lawyer charged through his office door. Janie Davies immediately stood and said, “Lije, if you have a minute, I’ve got something to show you.”
He ignored her. “Do you know where the extra key to our post office box is? I left mine in my other pants pocket.”
Janie opened the middle drawer of her desk and ran her fingers over the compartments in the well-organized space until she felt the key ring. “Here you go.” She tossed it his way. “Before you leave—”
“Good throw, Janie,” he said as he caught her keys. “Be back in a second.”
“But Lije,” he heard her call after him as he closed the front door and headed across the square.
It was cool for this time of the year, with temperatures in the high sixties. The slight breeze made it feel invigorating. Lije didn’t notice. He was on a mission and, for the moment, that mission was his sole focus.
He opened the door to the 1960s brick building that housed Salem’s post office and walked directly to his post office box. He inserted the key and opened the door. There, sitting on top of a half dozen envelopes, sat a small box. He pulled it out and checked the return address—Liberal, Kansas. This was it!
Like a kid hurrying home to try out a new bike, Lije rushed back across the square. He was so lost in thought he almost didn’t notice Diana Curtis studying the burn marks on the pavement in front of the office.
“Can’t believe how much it scarred the concrete,” she said as he rushed by and jumped the st
eps leading up to the raised sidewalk.
“Uh-huh.” He opened the door to the office.
He stopped just inside the door. Heather Jameson blocked his path.
“Lije, did Kent call you?” she asked.
“He did.” Lije walked around his partner and headed to his office. “Check your email later this morning. He told me he was sending an assignment your way.”
Janie, with Harlow leading the way, tried again to talk to Lije, but he closed the door to his office before she could get there.
Lije hurriedly unwrapped his treasures. The class ring had been polished recently and, except for a bit of wear around the edges, was in remarkable shape. The old Nazi medal was damaged. The years in the bottom of the coin jar had taken a toll. And yet here they were. He was holding them in his hands.
The Ash Flat ring, with the initials J. W., had to have been worn by his great-aunt JoJo. How had it gotten to Kansas? Would he finally answer the mystery of JoJo’s disappearance?
And how had the German medal gotten to the middle of America? Was it just a war souvenir, carried home by some GI? Why had it been the only medal in the estate sale?
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
“Lije, my friend.” Dr. Robert Cathcart had a grin on his face as he walked in and closed the door behind him. “I’ve found something very interesting. You’re going to love this.”
Lije stood up to shake the older man’s hand. “I have something for you too, professor. Have a chair.”
“I know I should’ve called first,” the gray-haired professor said.
“No, I’m glad you’re here. Let’s sit at the table. I have to show you these. Came in the mail this morning.”
Cathcart picked a chair by the bookcase. Lije moved another chair so he could sit next to his guest. “Look at these,” he said as he placed the ring and the medal on the table. “I bought them on eBay. Remember, I called you to look at the medal?”
