by Brian Meeks
Dewey got on the phone and told his secretary to call everyone back in. It was going to be a long night.
Jack decided to take his medicine and said, “You want me to bug the detective’s office now?”
Gilbert looked up and said, “Good idea, you should be able to get in there tonight…and great idea about the contact.”
Jack looked at Dewey who just gave a shrug. Gilbert was writing again, and Jack left, not letting them see his little grin.
CHAPTER 25
The game was in the book and the Dodgers had won. The 1955 season was off to a great start. Henry and the others enjoyed a pizza afterward, then he took Luna home.
Luna lived with her father, who seemed quite fond of Henry and didn’t mind her seeing so much of him. Henry liked Mr. Alexander, too. After spending about forty-five minutes talking baseball with Mr. Alexander, Henry said good night and drove home.
It seemed as if every traffic light turned red as he pulled up. It had been a beautiful day for the game, but clouds had rolled in, and it was raining. A car pulled out in front of Henry, and he had to slam on the breaks. “Damn it!”
For some reason, Cynthia Pollard’s lifeless body flashed across his mind. His muscles twitched. He wanted to move, to slam the accelerator to the floor and feel the car lurch forward.
Henry rarely swore and certainly not at trivialities, but he wasn’t angry at the red lights or being cut off. He was angry at himself for Cynthia. He couldn’t be sure why, exactly, as he hadn’t killed her, but still, in his mind, her blood was on his hands. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the timing. Did she know something about Kupton’s death? If she did, why did the killer wait so long? He had over a week. Was it a he?
Henry couldn’t remember what Amy had said about Mrs. Kupton. Had she known about Cynthia? He remembered her mentioning the affair and saying something, but his memory seemed to be failing him.
Henry made it home to Brooklyn and parked the car. He got out, slamming the door to blow off some steam. His coat got caught. He made a guttural noise and, with a clinched jaw, opened the door. The second attempt at slamming the door went better and made a satisfyingly loud thwack.
Henry walked up the stairs, checked the mailbox, and tucked the bills under his arm.
Once inside, he hung up his coat, grabbed a beer, and sat down at the kitchen table. He had left his notebook at the office, something he never did. The notes he had from Amy might answer his nagging question about Mrs. Kupton. He wondered if jealousy could have been the catalyst.
Henry walked around the kitchen. He sat down. He stood back up and took a drink of beer. He was annoyed. It was irrational and that annoyed him, too. Henry had to work, but he needed the stupid notebook. Two more laps around the kitchen and the beer was gone.
Henry decided the only thing he could do right now was listen to some more music from the future. It was on his list anyway and maybe being productive would ease his angst. The eighth song on the song list seemed to jump out at him. He clicked the button until the screen read, “Get It Right the First Time.”
The line, “Get it right the next time, it’s not the same thing,” seemed to pour salt in the wound. Getting it right now wouldn’t bring Cynthia back. It wouldn’t bring Kupton back, either, but that was different. When he died, Henry had never heard of him.
He had shared a meal with Cynthia. He wondered if something she might have said at the restaurant had gotten her killed. Was there anyone who seemed out of place? Was there someone watching them?
“Damn it.” Henry had let his senses get dulled by her beauty. He remembered her hair, how she smelled, the curves of her dress, and he could picture those lips. Just thinking of them made him feel guilty.
There was much about her and about who she was that he found ugly and uninteresting, but it was her searing exterior that had been blinding. For all Henry knew, they might have been alone in the restaurant. There must have been a waiter because food had arrived. Henry remembered the bartender, and he remembered sitting and waiting. He could see the people, mostly in pairs, sitting at their tables. Nothing out of the ordinary there, nobody else waiting. What he couldn’t remember was anything after she walked in. It was amateurish.
It had been a long night, and he was exhausted. Henry grabbed another beer and played the seventh song, "Always A Woman." It made him think of Luna, which was good. When it finished, he played it again. The stress left him, and he drifted off at the table.
CHAPTER 26
Martin Van Sythe stood up, and the quiet conversations around the table died out. The conference room door was closed, all the staff had gone home long ago, and, except for a few briefcases and two pitchers of water, the room was empty. Martin had prepared notes but didn’t need them.
In attendance were Charles Wayne Hudson, William Darby, John Fleming, Sir Richard Besserman, and the new man at the helm of Kupton Manufacturing, Matthew Kerwin. They all were focused on Martin.
“It has been over a year since Daniel Kupton approached William and me. His vision and plan was so complex that he only gave us the tip of the iceberg. His company was swimming in red ink, but he had a way out. He needed money and explained the risk. We both believed his discovery was worth the risk, and it was then we approached the rest of you. You each contributed generously, despite having only a cursory knowledge of his entire vision.”
Sir Richard Besserman said, “I can’t speak for the others, but for me, it was the results he had in the material testing that won me over.”
There was a general murmur of agreement from around the table. Martin continued, “Thank you, Richard, I appreciate your enthusiasm and trust. Daniel provided few updates to the group because he thought it was important to maintain absolute secrecy. He did keep me informed, and I passed along those details that I felt were necessary for you each to know. His recent death has caused considerable concern, and though I've tried to assure each of you that the plans are still moving forward, I wanted to put any remaining fears to rest. This is the first reason I called you here tonight. In addition to keeping me in the loop, Daniel had his number two, Matthew Kerwin, involved in every step of the project. This was his idea of an insurance policy. I'm glad he had the foresight to take this step.” He made a slight motion towards Matthew. “I would like Matthew to introduce himself. He has a few items to share with you.”
Matthew stood up, took a drink of water, and said, “I'm pleased to be here this evening despite the unfortunate circumstances that made it a necessity. In order to put your minds at ease, we thought it was best to give this update. Without boring you with endless technical detail, I can say that the original plans are being exceeded. When you were first approached, it was because our material sciences R&D team had succeeded in creating pipes that could withstand pressure at three times the previous record. They then applied what they had learned to a set of gauges. This is important because, as you know, the building of submarines requires this technology if they are to improve. A submarine may only head down to a depth at which its weakest link can handle. Furthermore, when in battle, the pipes must remain working even when…”
Charles Hudson said, “Not to interrupt, but we understand the importance and are aware that these advancements were key in gaining the Navy contracts. It’s awfully late. Why do these meetings always happen so late?”
John Flemming said, “Past your bedtime, Charlie?”
Matthew continued, “Yes, of course, I'm sorry. I do tend to go on a bit. I'll stick to the highlights. We are now producing parts daily, both the pipes and the gauges. Two dedicated teams, in a completely secure facility, are being put together from some of our top workers. In short, we will be able to deliver on the Navy contract, on time, and on budget. We are ready for Phase II.”
Martin stood up and said, “Before we share Phase II, I think it's important to discuss our own security. I've mentioned this to several of you and usually gotten strange looks…”
Everyone knew what was coming, but
they weren’t laughing this time.
“I'm convinced that our phones have been bugged. I've been keeping records and listening to the lines when I make calls, and the persistent clicking only happens on our business and home lines. Every other call I've made from a pay phone to another number is free of the noise. It isn’t very loud, but I know that some of you are noticing it now also.”
William said, “I thought he was crazy, too, but we had a talk, then we did a test together. Now I hear it all the time. I'm with Martin on this one.”
Everyone started to talk at once. The general feeling was that someone was listening. What couldn’t be agreed upon was who it might be. The most plausible theory was a competitor, but as Martin pointed out, the group was not public record. The investments had been kept secret. How could one person bug everyone's phone?
Matthew sat and listened to the commotion. All of them were standing, talking over one another. The theories were getting wilder by the minute.
Matthew was sure each man felt he was right and that the others were wrong, though nobody seemed to be listening to what was being said. Matthew almost laughed at Richard and William who were arguing fiercely, despite saying almost the exact same thing.
Finally, Martin had had enough, “Quiet. I said quiet, damn it!” He threw his water glass against the wall, and everyone stopped. “Gentlemen, please sit down, we aren’t getting anywhere.”
They realized he was right and took their seats. Martin continued, “I think we all agree that whoever it is, we don’t want them knowing our plans.”
John said, “I barely used my phone all day.”
The others made similar comments. It wasn’t long before they agreed the best course of action would be to never discuss group business on the phones. Also, they agreed everyone should avoid contact outside of meetings, which would be scheduled by messenger. The last point was to return to using their phones for normal business so as not to tip off the listeners.
The meeting broke up without the men ever discussing Phase II, which was exactly what Martin and Matthew had planned. They wanted to wait as long as possible to unveil their real agenda.
CHAPTER 27
He wore a dark trench coat, hat, and carried a small bag with his tools neatly wrapped in felt cloth. He moved like a whisper. The street was empty, as one would expect at 3:30 am on a Thursday. It was chilly, so Jack had his collar up and his head down. He was a master at being uninteresting and not worth notice. The Flatiron building was mostly dark, save for a weak light on the third floor. He hoped it wasn’t 309.
Jack climbed the stairs and entered the hall. He moved along the edge of the hallway out of habit. On wood floors, the edge is less likely to creak. The door with the light brought a pause, but when he didn't hear any sound, he continued to the door at the end. Picking the lock was easy. The hinges were silky smooth and he was inside.
Lamps were a good place for bugs, but they were also cliché, and he decided to place two in the outer room and two more in Henry’s office. The first one went behind the awful painting of the White House. The plant looked like a candidate, but errant watering or tending to it might be problematic. There was a reasonable amount of space between the filing cabinet and the wall. Jack eased the cabinet out and got down on his hands and knees to install the bug. The gun, in its shoulder holster, dug into his ribs as he stretched to put it in place. Jack removed the gun and set it on the floor. A few minutes later, the bug was installed, and he moved to Henry’s office.
Jack took out his camera and photographed the layout.
The view from Henry's office was nice. Jack loved the look of the city at night and watched a couple making-out down the street. The notebook on the desk caught Jack's eye and he flipped through it. He was careful to put it back in the exact same spot. Detectives have a way of noticing things that are out of place.
* * *
Henry woke up for no reason. There was dreaming going on, but he couldn't remember what it was about. He was shaken, though, and decided he might as well get up. A quick shower and shave later, and he was out the door.
It was an easy drive into the city. Henry wanted to stop at his favorite diner for a cup of coffee but decided he wouldn’t feel at ease until he got his notebook back in his pocket where it belonged.
Henry started to make a mental list of what he needed to do for the day. It annoyed him that he couldn't just write it down. When he found a parking spot only two blocks from his office, things began to look up. The cold air made him question why he wasn't back in bed, but the detective in him pushed on. He looked at his watch. It was almost ten 'til 4:00 am. The wind came up and he turned his back to light a cigarette. Henry didn't smoke much, but it calmed his nerves. The death of Cynthia bothered him more than it should.
* * *
Jack was about to close the door and lock it, when he noticed his holster was too light. He retrieved the gun from the floor and gave the place a once over. Everything was back where it should be. He checked his bag. The tools and bugs were there, except for the four he left behind. He decided not to bug the phone, as he knew Henry was already worried about them being tapped. Confident that there weren’t any traces, he locked the door and crept back down the hall. He reached the street and crossed, passing the couple who were kissing by the lamppost. He turned at the alley and was gone into the shadows.
* * *
Henry walked past the couple kissing and crossed the street. A cold wind almost took his hat. When he got inside, the warmth was appreciated. A few minutes later, he was sitting at his desk, flipping through his notebook while a pot of coffee gurgled in the background. He took his pencil from his desk and started to make his list. Today was already starting to feel like a good one.
CHAPTER 28
The plan had been straightforward. Oleg and Pytor, after an enjoyable dinner, would leave the Kremlin and be taken to a small airport outside of town. They would pass through a hangar, where two unsuspecting men of similar age and weight would exit in their place and board the Illyushin II-14. The men were told they were a diversion and would be home the next day. The men would make it home, though, in caskets and with their identities changed. Their families would be told they died in an accident while classified documents would list them as Oleg Kiselev and Pytor Chistyakov, deceased. Four families would mourn their deaths.
Neither Oleg nor Pytor gave their commrades' sacrifice much thought. The two men first traveled by car, mostly in silence, to Warsaw. In a small, gray flat, an old Polish woman had two cots prepared. She made them breakfast and they slept until late afternoon. Around 4:00 p.m., the men crawled into the back of a truck that would take them to Prague. They boarded a Bristol Type 170 Series 32 Superfreighter, which was owned by a sympathetic British businessman. The flight plan was straight forward and was made several times per week for business. Nobody would question its arrival in London.
Time and distance traveled softened the animosity they held towards one another. Oleg went first, “It is nice to have a chair.”
Pytor was thinking the same thing and nodded, “It would be nicer to have a bottle.”
The copilot stuck his head out, pointed, and said, “Check the compartment to your left. We will be ready to leave in about fifteen minutes.”
Oleg leaned over, and sure enough, a bottle of vodka was packed among some books. He almost smiled. “To our mission.” He held the bottle up then took a pull. Handing it to Pytor he said, “I was sorry to hear about your wife.”
Pytor took the bottle and said, “Thank you. She was a strong woman, but the cancer was stronger.” He took another drink and passed the bottle back. It would travel between them until empty. They talked about the mission until the sins of the past seemed not to matter much anymore. They were comrades again.
In London, arrangements had been made for their arrival. A safe house had been set up outside the normal KGB channels where they would spend a day before making the final leg of their journey to the United States.
Moving spies between one country and the next was not especially difficult; it was part of espionage. Moving a couple of seasoned, well-known veterans like Pytor and Oleg without the British or Americans finding out was a far sight harder. Doing it all without the KGB finding out, either, made it especially challenging. Oleg found this last aspect of the mission thrilling. Pytor had some misgivings but kept them to himself. Mostly, he was concerned that they had run out of vodka.
* * *
Henry had a cup of coffee. He had cleared his mind by closing his eyes and listening to his surroundings. It was an exercise he had been taught by his old boss, Mickey, and it worked well. If one only focused on listening, it was amazing how much information there was to be had. The trick was to identify as many different sounds as possible: their location, distance, direction, and, if conversations, the substance of what is being said. If one practices, it's possible to pick out voices among a crowd of people who are all having different discussions. Henry found that when he tried it for fifteen minutes or so, all the other distractive thoughts he had before seemed to vanish.
He could hear the slight sound of the coffee maker, air moving through the vents as they brought warm air into the room, an occasional squeak from his chair even though he tried to sit perfectly still. Further out, he could hear some traffic though it was only a little after 4:00 a.m. A truck slowed and turned, and then a car, which had also slowed, hit the gas. There was a distant honking. He imagined it being four blocks to the north but couldn’t say for sure; it might have been five. He smiled to himself, knowing that he wasn’t really that good, but his little voice liked to think he was. Outside the office he heard the short stride of Bobby. knock, knock, knock.
