She put away the last of the dinner dishes, folded her towel, and they went down to the basement where Natasha pored over another book on United States government and Lockington listened to ragtime piano music. Following the news, they climbed the stairs and went to bed. It was an excellent life, carefree, relaxed, even idyllic, and it was driving Lacey Lockington bonkers because it was so filled with usualities, if there was such a word, and there probably wasn’t, but, what the hell, it worked, so he let it stand.
He hadn’t told Natasha that he was bored because he wasn’t bored with Natasha, just with the usualities, and he hadn’t mentioned the usualities because he knew that boredom invariably precedes change, usually for the worse. Tangling with boredom is like going a couple of rounds with a washed-up heavyweight, Lockington thought—he’ll shuffle and he’ll grab and he’ll hold, but watch out for that old bastard’s left hook. It can put your lights out.
3
OCTOBER 9, 1988 / COMMLINK LANGLEY-CHICAGO / CODE 3 UNSCRAMBLED
LINE OPENED LANGLEY 0900 EDT
LANGLEY–CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS / 0901 EDT
BEGIN TEXT: PER YOUR REQUEST SEATTLE OF OFFICE HAS DISPATCHED CHECKMATE YOUNGSTOWN OHIO / WORD ON CHECKMATE? / END TEXT / MASSEY
CHICAGO–LANGLEY / ATTN MASSEY / 0803 CDT
BEGIN TEXT: AFFIRMATIVE / CHECKMATE IN YOUNGSTOWN AWAITING DEVELOPMENTS IF ANY / END TEXT / CARRUTHERS
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LINE CLEARED LANGLEY 0907 EDT
4
Monday, October 10, 1988, dawned chilly and wispy gray. By nine o’clock that morning the sun had burned through the Mahoning Valley mists, the temperature had clambered into the mid-sixties, the skies were cloudless blue, the heavily wooded slopes were yellow, rust, and scarlet, and Lacey Lockington’s scowl was blacker than the ace of spades. He parked Natasha’s Mercedes, unlocked his office door, ambled into the stuffy little room, and hung his hat on a nail. He flopped into his swivel chair, leaning back, placing his feet squarely in the middle of his desk top. He put a match to a cigarette and began the disconsolate three hour wait for lunchtime. Silence closed in on the big fellow in the tiny room, and his thoughts drifted.
He’d spent what had been left of June and all of July tinkering in the basement, building a closet, installing shelves, paneling a wall. Then he’d done some yard work and he’d painted the garage. Natasha had watched him, saying nothing, until she’d suggested that he get back into harness before he went stark staring insane. He’d argued the point just long enough and in August he’d applied for a Class B license—investigative work only. The required four thousand hours of supervised detection employment had been verified by the Chicago Police Department and Natasha had driven with him to Columbus where he’d taken the State of Ohio examination—five hundred bucks, whether he passed it or not, and he’d romped through it like a dose of salts. Natasha had shelled out five thousand dollars for the required million dollar liability insurance policy, this in the event that Lockington shot a wrong party in the excercise of his office, which had struck him as being a bit on the extravagant side because he’d shot a few people in his time, but never a wrong party. However, the precaution was justified, because in the light of current affairs, you could shoot a man who’s holding up a service station with a Browning automatic rifle and find yourself in court the next morning on a charge of disturbing the peace.
Following the exam, they’d stopped for beer and ribs, taken a motel room fifty miles north of Columbus, and gone to bed at eight o’clock in the evening—by ten-thirty Lockington had learned why there are so many Russians.
He’d been half-drowsing, looking back again, when the unimaginable occurred—the office door swung open and a man came in. He wore a lightweight gray hat, an ill-fitting dark green leisure suit, and a rumpled, open-at-the-collar white shirt. His thick-lensed tortoise-shell spectacles rode the bridge of an aquiline nose, his deep-set eyes were the color of horseshoe-court clay, his lips were tightly pursed in about-to-pass-judgment fashion. Lockington put the visitor’s age at forty or so. He was a lean, leathery man, probably six-one, slight of build, he carried a black cane, and his deliberate, halting approach was that of a crippled daddy-longlegs. He pulled up halfway to the desk, eyeing Lockington myopically and said, “I noticed your sign yesterday evening. This is a private detective agency, is it not?” His voice was soft and deep, the kind readily associated with the reading of bedtime stories to cantankerous children.
Lockington stifled a yawn. He said, “Today, yes—tomorrow it may be a tortilla joint.”
The man nodded, making his way through the gathering morning heat to the straight-backed wooden chair on Lockington’s right, seating himself with a groan and a grimace. Lockington said, “Bum back?”
The spidery man shook his head. “Damaged hip—football-connected injury—had it for years.”
“College ball?”
“No, professional—Pittsburgh Steelers—I was trampled during half time at a beer counter in Three Rivers Stadium.”
Lockington grinned, liking him for that. He could just as easily have claimed to be a wide receiver. He shoved out his hand. “I’m Lacey Lockington. What can I do for you?”
The newcomer’s handshake was a limp-wristed perfunctory thing. He said, “The name is Kilbuck—Gordon Kilbuck. Tell me, Mr. Lockington, do you, err-r-r, trace people?”
Lockington said, “I’ve tried. Some are, some aren’t.”
Gordon Kilbuck repursed his lips. “Some are and some aren’t what?”
“Traceable.”
“Yes, of course—well, I suppose that figures. Mr. Lockington, I’m a writer.” While he waited for the statement to soak in, Kilbuck produced a battered briar pipe, stuffing it with evil-looking black shag tobacco, firing it up.
Lockington was nodding. He said, “Well, don’t sweat it, Gordon—we’ve all made mistakes.”
With an obvious effort, Kilbuck swung his left leg over his right, leaning his cane against the desk, shifting on the chair to face Lockington directly. He said, “I do biographies. I’ve completed one book—it was a three-year project—a biography of Rylon Jennings.”
“Oh, yeah, the country singer.”
Kilbuck was shaking his head. “Rylon Jennings—British general—Second World War.”
Lockington said, “Oh.” The name was meaningless to him.
Kilbuck said, “I’m a military buff. Rylon Jennings was a devotee of Clausewitz.”
Lockington winced. “Sorry to hear that. Was it fatal?”
Kilbuck cracked a patient half-smile. “To his army career, indeed it was. Karl von Clausewitz was a Prussian officer, a military genius—late eighteenth century, early nineteenth. He served both Prussia and Russia.”
“A mercenary?”
“In a sense, yes.”
Lockington nodded. The name Clausewitz was ringing no bells.
Kilbuck was saying, “You’re familiar with the military, Mr. Lockington?”
“As familiar as I intend to get.”
“You’ve served?”
“After a fashion.”
“Well, Karl von Clausewitz was the first to refine combat to equation status—his formula, numbers times variables times quality, has withstood the test of a thousand battles—ninety-five percent accurate!”
“Did fear figure into Clausewitz’s equation?”
“Only as a generality—Clausewitz didn’t dwell on it. Fear is a virus, a contagious thing.”
“And it’s chronic—I’ve co
me down with it on numerous occasions.” Lockington didn’t have the slightest notion what Kilbuck was doing in his office, but he’d fractured the monotony and Lockington was grateful for that.
Kilbuck was saying, “Currently, I’m working on my second book, a biography of Alexi Fedorovich. Fedorovich is a contemporary figure—to the best of my knowledge, he hasn’t been done before.”
Lockington squinted. “Fedorovich…Notre Dame?”
Kilbuck’s pipe had gone out and he tamped it with a forefinger, relighting it. He said, “That’s the trouble with pipes—can’t keep the damned things going.” He puffed furiously and blue smoke billowed. “No, second-in-command, Soviet Military Planning Division.”
Lockington peered through the smoke. He said, “Uh-huh,” stopping there.
Kilbuck sucked in a deep breath. “You see, years back, at the crescendo of the cold war, Russia had amassed armored forces sufficient to the overrunning of Western Europe within weeks. NATO countered that buildup with nuclear missiles locked in on those Warsaw Pact nations harboring Soviet armor. It was NATO’s only logical move, and it nullified the Russian advantage. That was where Gen. Alexi Fedorovich stepped in.”
Lockington didn’t say anything, a habit of his when he didn’t have anything to say.
Kilbuck’s muddy eyes were lighting up, he was getting into his subject. “A stalemate existed, and to break it, Fedorovich offered a two-stage plan, immediately accepted and implemented by the Russian high command. The first Soviet step was to install vast numbers of nuclear missile launchers in Eastern Bloc countries—East Germany, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, Hungary, Romania—thereby neutralizing NATO’s move, and converting the whole of Europe into a sea of launching platforms. NATO countries began to get edgy—the missiles they’d welcomed were suddenly perceived as liabilities, possible catalysts—Western Europe could be taken off the map in a matter of hours, and this was the precise reaction anticipated by General Fedorovich!”
Lockington said, “You’ve mentioned a second stage.” He’d made the statement, hoping to keep the show on the road. The subject matter was of no great concern to him, but Kilbuck was someone to talk to. Prior to his entrance, Lockington had been marooned, and he’d seen Kilbuck much as Robinson Crusoe must have seen Friday. Like Crusoe, Lockington didn’t speak his visitor’s language, but what the hell, human companionship is human companionship.
Gordon Kilbuck was nodding, sucking on his vile-smelling briar pipe. “The second stage is blossoming now—the Soviets are offering to pull their missiles out of Eastern Europe if NATO will eliminate its own. That way, the Russians insist, everybody will be able to get a good night’s sleep.”
“And if NATO bites, the situation returns to Square One.”
Kilbuck slapped his knee. “Exactly! If NATO scraps its nuclear defenses, Western Europe will be right back where it started, confronted once more by overwhelming Soviet armor that can roll over the continent like a grass fire! The Russian conventional combat potential is awesome, it possesses approximately two-and-one-half-to-one superiority in every facet—foot soldiers, tanks, artillery, aircraft, and no military defense can entertain the slightest hope for survival if it doesn’t have at least two-thirds of the numbers thrown against it. Alexi Fedorovich knew this—Fedorovich has studied Clausewitz! NATO would be extremely fortunate to muster one-third!”
Lockington nodded. “In short, NATO is about to fuck itself.”
“Royally, with the expert assistance of Gen. Alexi Fedorovich—he foresaw NATO’s response to nuclear proliferation. The Soviet move was bluff, pure and simple, but Fedorovich knew damned well that the West would knuckle under! Westerners are poor chess players, and he was aware of it, more so because he spent the first fifteen years of his life in America. When his mother died of diphtheria, his father, an immigrant steelworker, took young Alexi back to the Ukraine. That would have been fifty years ago—in 1938.”
“Just in time for the big shootout. Fedorovich is sixty-five now?”
“Yes, he was barely twenty when he distinguished himself during the siege of Stalingrad. He received a battlefield commission, and at the close of the war he was the Soviet Army’s youngest colonel. Fedorovich was valuable—he spoke perfect English, he’d learned Russian from his parents, he was courageous, intelligent, innovative. He spent the early postwar years at the Soviet Military Institute in Minsk and he became a general in 1955! Can you imagine that? A Soviet general at thirty-two? Absolutely unheard of in the Russian military!”
“How interesting.” It wasn’t, but Lockington felt that he should say something.
Kilbuck said, “Fedorovich was a great man, a great man.”
Lockington said, “You keep referring to him in the past tense. Is Fedorovich dead?”
“Not yet.” Kilbuck cleared his throat, a dead giveaway—here came the commercial. “In late May of this year, Alexi Fedorovich defected to the United States. He was in East Germany on an inspection tour and he went sightseeing in West Berlin. He entered a nightclub, left by a side entrance, hailed a cab, and went to the United States Embassy where he asked for political asylum.”
“Quite a catch.”
“Tremendous! He was flown to Washington, questioned for three months, then was granted United States citizenship under a new identity.”
Lockington found a cigarette and lit it. He said, “Uhh-h-h, Gordon, tell me, how have you managed to acquire such information?”
Kilbuck shifted his gaze to the floor of Lockington’s office. “I research thoroughly, Mr. Lockington—and I have certain sources.”
“Tell me about your sources.”
“I can’t do that—I’d be placing people at risk.”
“Physical risk?”
“Not necessarily, but I’d certainly be jeopardizing their careers.”
“Why did Fedorovich defect—what were the motivating factors?” Lockington was genuinely interested now.
Gordon Kilbuck spread his hands, palms up. “Who can say? Ostensibly, he has come to regard Russia as an unstable explosive capable of destroying the civilized world—when he was masterminding Soviet strategy, he felt that he was doing the patriotic thing, helping the land of his father’s birth. Now he claims to foresee disaster, global disaster on a scale that would curl your hair.”
“That’s ostensibly.”
“Yes. What you see isn’t necessarily what you get.”
“Fedorovich is shooting it sharp?”
“The CIA doesn’t think so.”
“He’s in the United States?”
“I’m certain of it, but the CIA has lost track of the man.”
“The KGB wants his ass, probably.”
“The KGB wants his ass, certainly!”
“Pardon me if I’m wrong, but I’m beginning to get the impression that you want me to find the sonofabitch.”
“Yes! I simply must interview Alexi Fedorovich!”
“Forget it!”
Kilbuck hunched forward on the wooden chair. “Mr. Lockington, what are your rates?”
“Three hundred a day plus expenses, I make no guarantees, and I’m not interested.”
“I’ll pay five plus expenses, and I’ll require no guarantees. Just an honest effort.”
Lockington scratched his jowl. He grated, “Now, look, Kilbuck—you expect me to believe that you just happened to notice the sign on my window, and you dropped in to offer five hundred dollars a day to a nickel-and-dime private detective that you know nothing about for a case that has world-class political ramifications? You’ll have to come up with a better yarn.”
Kilbuck’s smile was sheepish. “Frankly, I didn’t really believe that one would fly. Mr. Lockington, I’ve heard of you.”
“Why, sure, you have! I’ve lived in Youngstown for four months, and I’ve been in business for a week. You must have heard of me!”
“You’re from Chicago—you handled the Devereaux business, didn’t you?”
“What about the Devereaux busines
s?”
“Why go into that? Lets just say that I know people in the Central Intelligence Agency. Will that suffice?”
Lockington shrugged. “Probably. It might also explain your knowledge of Fedorovich.”
“Yes, it might. Will you accept the job?”
Lockington brought his feet from the desk top to the floor with a resounding thump. He placed an elbow on the arm of the swivel chair and rested his chin in the palm of his hand. He stared unblinkingly at Gordon Kilbuck. “All right, let’s see if I’ve got this straight—you are going to pay me five hundred dollars per day to go stomping around a country of two hundred and fifty million people, looking for a man I don’t know, who is on the lam from the Central Intelligence Agency, with the fucking KGB snapping at his ass. Is that how it plays, Kilbuck?”
Kilbuck’s smile was of the infinitely superior variety. People who smile infinitely superior smiles usually know more than you do, or they think they do. Kilbuck said, “It might not be as difficult as it appears. I have excellent cause to believe that Gen. Alexi Fedorovich is here in Youngstown, Ohio.”
“I’d have to hear your excellent cause.”
“Fedorovich was born in Youngstown, he lived here for fifteen years—all of us have that homing pigeon instinct—he knows this area, he probably has childhood friends here!”
“You have leads to that effect?”
“Certainly.”
“How strong—how many?”
“Just one, and it’s strong, but I can’t run it down.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t possess the expertise for that sort of job. It begs for a professional.”
The Fedorovich File Page 2
