It was so dark that Monte couldn’t see his watch, but guessed it was around one o’clock Thursday morning when he heard Leo’s voice outside the door, but couldn’t make out what was said.
Jake and Leo entered their room, turned on the light and stopped short. Shock registered on their faces when they saw Monte sitting with his gun drawn and pointed at them.
“What’s the matter, boys? Cat got your tongue?”
Leo looked at Jake and back at Maxwell. “Wha’, what are you doing here Detective Maxwell?” he asked fearfully. “We ain’t done nuthin’... Why the gun?”
“Get over there against the wall, both of you,” Monte commanded as he rose from the dilapidated chair. “Face the wall with your hands behind your heads!” First, he frisked Jake removing the offending knife from his person, then Leo. “Okay, turn around slowly,” he directed. Stepping back and slapping the .38 against the palm of his hand he ordered both of the men to empty their pockets on the floor.
Leo and Jake did as they were told. They both knew better than to argue with Monte. Their instincts told them he was in a killer mood.
“Now then boys,” he smiled menacingly, “I came to collect all the items you took from Kelshaw—every one,” he emphasized.
Their faces reflected surprise and then fear. “Honest, Detective Maxwell, we didn’t get no stuff off the guy, and we didn’t find anything at the Center either. Ya’ gotta believe us,” Leo pleaded.
Monte’s eyes glittered. “Then where did his stuff go?” He asked in mock pleasantry.
After obeying Monte’s command “We didn’t have time to search him before that damn priest came out,” Jake said angrily, his temper was gaining on him. Leo glanced at him nervously. This was not the time to further provoke Monte.
Monte’s temper exploded; he came across the room at them. “Lies!” he raged as he brought the side of his gun down against Jake’s cheek in a glancing blow. Jake fell and Monte grabbed him by the collar and hauled him back up against the wall.
Looking at Leo he said, “Don’t even think of moving. I swear I’ll blow your friggin’ heads off.” He slammed Jake against the wall again, yelling, “All I’ve heard from you morons are lies and excuses! I think you’re holding out on me. You were thinking that maybe you could double-cross old Monte and keep whatever Kelshaw had plus maybe get paid the rest of the dough. Unh, uh,” he said caressing the gun this time along Leo’s cheek, “it’s not going to work.” He then slammed the gun against Leo’s head and watched him drop to his knees.
Then Monte simply applied the gun indiscriminately not bothering to let either of them get back on their feet. They were crouching with their hands over their head trying to ward off the blows. It was obvious Monte was out of control.
“Please,” Leo yelped, “ya’ gotta believe us, we don’t have any of the guy’s stuff—we don’t even want the rest of the money—you keep it, Monte, just leave us alone.”
“Yeah,” echoed Jake. “We’ll get out of your life. Just, just leave us alone” he stammered.
“And I don’t like being talked to like I was your lackey either,” Monte raged on. “You need a lesson in telephone manners,” emphasizing each word with a blow.
“We’re sa... sa...sorrry.” Leo stammered. He was sure Monte would kill them.
Monte slowly came out of his blind rage; he realized he really might do them in right there in the hotel room.
He stopped pistol whipping them, but still held onto the gun as he looked them over. They were bleeding from some cuts and would have plenty of bruises from the beating, but they would survive. They would probably have a good headache in the morning, Monte told himself.
“Okay,” he said, he was shaking now as he pointed his finger at them. “You stay away from me; if I ever hear of you tossing my name around, you’re dead meat! Understand?”
Jake and Leo just nodded.
He left them on the floor in a state of fright and apprehension. Monte had reason to be apprehensive as well; Jake and Leo didn’t have the merchandise, but he had to find it. And he had to get rid of Jake and Leo. No matter how scared they were now, it would be temporary; they were definitely liabilities. It was time to call in a favor.
Arriving home he entered the house quietly; Dora was still asleep. Monte went to the den and closed the door. “Those two are gonna’ pay for their bungling stupidity,” he muttered.
Picking up the telephone he dialed the Atlas Window Company to arrange for payment. The night watchman Monte needed to speak with would be there. “Hello Sal, this is Monte Maxwell. You know the favor you owe me? I’m calling it in now. You need to arrange for an accident... and don’t worry, I will see to it that I will personally handle the investigation. ”
✽✽✽
Wednesday night had been a long night for Charlene Thayer. As she reconstructed the evening in her mind she felt as if she had been caught in a time warp. What could it mean? The date of the letter indicated that Paul had written it eight months after she had been notified of his death. How could it be? She read and reread the letter looking for some clue, something that she might have missed. Paul seemed more real to her now than he had for years.
She could almost hear his voice speaking from the yellowed page of the tattered letter in her hand. But no amount of reading gave explanation. Betrayed! He said he had been betrayed.... by whom? And who is George? Questions that didn’t make sense and the hurt was there all over again. The stabbing pain of knowing Paul was gone forever and nothing could change the loss.
Shivering she walked slowly to her bedroom. Undressing and wrapping herself in an old blanket robe, she took a bundle of letters from her closet shelf and returning to the living room she sank into Paul’s old chair and began to read them one by one. Tears came and dried and came again as she read and reread the letters; images emerging in her memory.
She met him for the first time at the San Francisco Air terminal. It was August, 1965. Charlene had flown to San Francisco with two friends to attend a business meeting and was looking forward to a free weekend of sightseeing. A transportation union strike that affected much of the service to and from the airport was in full swing.
They stood in line together and chatted casually while waiting for buses to take them into the city. She learned he had just returned from his first tour in Vietnam as an advisor. As the passengers were pushing their way to catch airport buses, the three friends piled into the last bus in line; when looking back they saw Paul still on the curb with his duffel. Charlene instantly made the driver stop to allow him to board the bus. There was standing room only and so he stood next to where she was seated, talking and studying her.
It was easy to close her eyes and see his sun-tanned face under the close cropped dark hair. Lines at the corner of gray green eyes showed a depth of humor, but there was something else reflected in his eyes, unrest or even sadness.
Later they would laugh when she commented that he had smile lines and he told her they were probably caused by squinting in the sun due to the loss of his sunglasses on two separate occasions while engaged in observation from a helicopter.
✽✽✽
Even though she had participated in a number of peaceful demonstrations against the war, she could not support anti-American pro-North Vietnam demonstrators. As the war continued and the demonstrations grew more violent and ugly, Charlene struggled with her own objections and conscience. She believed the flag burning and radical anti-military extremists were more threatening to the country than the war itself.
She remembered how strained he looked as their bus passed a group of anti-war demonstrators who waved a torn and scorched American flag as they drove past. Charlene felt ill at ease that he should see them... bits and pieces of memories came together in a ragged scene. It would be played again and again in different cities and places, but now they all ran together in her mind like a multicolored river.
He smiled at her and inquired if she thought he would need a reservation to stay i
n town that evening; his flight was scheduled for the next afternoon. Charlene said it was likely and suggested he inquire at the hotel where she and her friends were staying. His open appreciation at her suggestion left little doubt of his interest.
She cancelled her plans for the evening and she and Paul had dinner together and talked and talked like old friends all through the night. She learned he was on his way to Carlisle Barracks for a year at the War College. It was a relief to know he wasn’t going back to Vietnam for at least that long or more.
He found out about her family in Seattle and that she often traveled in her work to the East Coast suggesting that it might be possible to get together on one of her trips. By the time Paul left the next day they both knew that there could be no one else for either of them.
It seemed now as though they had loved each other instantly and without reservation. Always comfortable together, they intuitively understood one another without pretenses. Once, a short time after they were married they were just walking, Paul squeezed her hand, pulled her next to him and said, “You know I feel as though we have always known each other. It’s like one of us had been away and now we’re both home. We fit together...”
She had kissed him and laughingly added, “Yes, we fit together like two old spoons,” silly things in the montage of memories came back to her. She thought of their hurried marriage, the whirlwind trip, meeting his mother and family and his friends, Brad and Olivia Coleman. Paul and Brad had been at West Point together. Brad’s wife, Olivia and Paul had grown up together and were as close as brother and sister. The Coleman’s became as close to Charlene as they were to Paul.
Meeting Paul’s family included cousins, aunts and uncles all proud and supportive of Paul and eager to meet his bride. Her family was a bit alarmed at the hasty decision to marry Paul, but was easily won over after meeting him. She was thinking of the cold Pennsylvania winter and visiting... Charlie heard the alarm in the bedroom announcing it was Thursday morning.
✽✽✽
6:00AM Thursday
Andrew was dialing the secure telephone number of Neil Klein in Washington D.C. It dawned on him he had not called Ben last night; oh well, he would do it after talking with Klein. He had the scripted conversation on his desk facing him. The phone rang once, twice...
“Klein,” the voice that answered was deep and cultured.
“This is Andrew Kincaid in Seattle, Mr. Klein. Your Aunt Martha has arrived in Seattle, but she will be delayed due to a medical condition. Her luggage is with me, but she asked that it be sent home to you. I need a correct shipping address.”
“Thank you for calling, Andrew. Aunt Martha told me that you or Father Lee might be contacting me. How bad is her condition?” Neil Klein adjusted his wire rimmed glasses to peer at a document by his elbow. The polished dark wood desk was clear of everything but the telephone, a picture of an attractive woman with Neil and a few papers neatly stacked at his fingertips. The office was rich in polished woods; a series of bookcases lined one wall. Windows behind the desk looked out across the campus of Georgetown University.
Andrew cleared his throat and continued, “Your Aunt’s condition is grave, but she was most emphatic about her luggage being sent home to you.”
Neil responded, “If Aunt Martha is that ill I believe I should come to Seattle. I will leave as soon as possible; would you please make a hotel reservation for me tomorrow under the name ‘Evan Scott’. I will call you when I arrive.” Without waiting for Andrew to respond, Neil continued, “I will get word to you at the Times or through KGM. Hold on to Martha’s bags until I get there.”
Andrew quickly interjected, “Of course I’ll hold on to your aunt’s luggage, but as far as a hotel is concerned; let me make a reservation for you at the Washington Athletic Club, it’s not as public as a hotel. I will register you there as my guest.”
Neil responded, “Excellent. Wait for my call. Remember, ‘Evan Scott’. See you soon.”
Andrew gave a mock salute to the telephone as he hung up. “Yes sir! Anything else, sir?” he inquired of the mute instrument. He wasn’t used to the cut and dried treatment, but he realized he was playing on a whole new field. He shrugged, gave Father Ben a quick call at home, grabbed his coat and headed north for Charlene Thayer’s house. He wasn’t sure how, but he was certain that he was going to try to help her.
✽✽✽
Following his talk with Andrew Kincaid, Neil sat back in his chair. So George didn’t make it. His dark blue eyes gazed intently out the window, but his thoughts were far away. It was a personal loss and he felt empty and deeply saddened by the call.
He thought back to the first time he saw George Kelshaw. It was 1961 and Neil Klein had just joined the State Department in the Office of Asian Pacific Affairs and was attending one of the orientation classes for new recruits. This class was conducted by a handsome and impressive 28 year old professor of linguistics from Georgetown University whose name was George Kelshaw.
Along with the class he was awed by Kelshaw’s knowledge of Southeast Asia, its people and languages, and the ease with which he presented his subject. He spoke authoritatively, using a small tobacco pipe plucked from the breast pocket of his coat to tap locations and trace distances on the wall maps behind him; at the same time describing picturesque scenes of river deltas, plains and mountains with lush vegetation and valley floors filled with blood red poppy fields. He spoke as a man in love with his subject.
Neil worked as an adjunct professor in political science at Georgetown and had been invited to attend an afternoon faculty tea; he was delighted to come face to face with the animated linguistics professor again. This time he would have an opportunity to speak to and learn more about him. It was on this occasion that their friendship began.
Upon entering the room Neil spotted a dark haired, well built man surrounded by a group of faculty wives, laughing and chatting. He was casually leaning against a grand piano with his back toward the doorway; then turning slightly Neil saw that it was Kelshaw. It was obvious that women were attracted to his dark good looks.
Neil noted George’s attire was typically professorial; tweed jacket with leather patches on the sleeves, the pipe sticking out of his breast pocket while some other male faculty members wore more formal dark suits. George, completely oblivious to fashion statements, seemed to be enjoying every minute of conversation, his dark eyes twinkling in amusement as he laughed or smiled.
When he saw Neil he gracefully broke away from the women and made his way across the room. He threaded his way with catlike ease past other guests holding plates and teacups and extending his hand introduced himself saying, “Hello there, I’m George Kelshaw, I remember you—you were in the orientation class at State three or four weeks ago. How is it going over there?”
“Neil Klein,” he responded, grasping Kelshaw’s hand, “And fine, thanks for asking. I’m amazed that you would remember me from all those faces.”
As time passed Neil would find memory to be only one of many outstanding characteristics of George Kelshaw.
“What brings you to this little soiree, surely not tea?” George asked pleasantly.
“No, I do my bit as an adjunct in the Science Department; although I don’t know if I’ll be able to juggle both jobs for very long. I am very glad to see you here; I have wanted to meet you and tell you how much I enjoyed your lecture on Southeast Asia”
During their conversation Neil learned that George’s parents were both physicians, had been medical missionaries and had lived and traveled throughout Indochina for years. They had come back to the United States from Laos in 1943 barely ahead of Japanese internment. George was only ten years old, but indelible memories connected with crisscrossing terrain and tribal village after tribal village remained with him.
Born in a small Laotian village, it seemed George could close his eyes and see the peoples and hear the sounds and sense the smells. He captured the languages so easily that even his parents were amazed at his fluency
and encouraged him to continue to broaden vocabularies. His parents helped keep Southeast Asia alive for George by recalling events and places their medical service had taken them. These memories and knowledge would save his life many times in later years.
Following the faculty tea, Neil and George often met for lunch or dinner as their schedules would allow. Each meeting was an educational experience for Neil; he found George to be a brilliant man and good friend. He learned that George had earned his PhD at Princeton and had been teaching at Georgetown for two years.
One evening George had invited Neil to have dinner with him; there was someone that he wanted Neil to meet. Neil was certain that George had finally found a special person and wanted Neil’s stamp of approval. At dinner George introduced Neil to Myra, his younger sister.
Like George she had dark hair, large gray eyes and a lovely smile that lit up her face. Well dressed, perfectly groomed, poised and beautiful was Myra Kelshaw; and Neil was smitten. That evening Neil and Myra found they had several things in common. She was two years younger than Neil, had attended William and Mary University and had majored in Political Science and like her brother was fluent in several languages as well.
Through many evenings following their initial meeting, they found they shared a liking for the same kind of music, books and generally the same outlook on life. They were married several months later and Myra became Neil’s chief confidante along with her brother, but she chose to remain quietly in the background. It was not generally known that Myra and George were brother and sister.
It was not surprising when in 1964 George who two years had earlier been commissioned an officer in the U S Air Force was tapped to serve in the American Embassy in Saigon. Neil knew it was an Intelligence assignment. They would see each other occasionally through the years when George made trips back to Washington and later when Neil joined the office of Intelligence for the State Department. Their contact was more frequently professional.
While Rome Was Sleeping Page 12
