While Rome Was Sleeping

by M. S. Forsythe

  ✽✽✽

  Wednesday morning

  Lyle Ramsey’s private line was ringing, “Hello, Lyle this is Brad. I told you I would call when I found out about Evan Scott; he works for Neil Klein at the State Department in the office of intelligence. We may have a problem, Lyle. The packet of information that George Kelshaw was carrying reached Neil Klein.”

  “What was in it, Brad?” Lyle was nervous.

  “I’m not certain, I’m afraid that there may be some information about GCI. We know that it was Kelshaw that burgled the Bangkok office.”

  Lyle asked, “What do you want me to do, Brad?”

  “Call your Tokyo office alerting them to what has happened and make certain that all of the contract information is secured. Does Carr know about the break-in?” Brad asked.

  “Possibly, although we haven’t discussed it; nothing escapes him for long.”

  “I was hoping that getting rid of Kelshaw would take care of the problem, the information in that damned packet could hurt us, Lyle.”

  “Lyle responded, “We must find out how widespread the damage is. I’ll do what I can at this end, Brad. I’ll call Tokyo and tighten security.”

  Coleman didn’t tell Ramsey about his encounter with Neil Klein at the Watergate the night before.

  Chapter 18

  Seattle

  Thursday, October 2, 1980

  Andrew arrived at the Times at 6:30 AM to place a call to Neil Klein. Hearing Klein’s deep “Hello”, Andrew immediately started, “Neil, we need to talk,” he said excitedly. “Have you gone all through the information in Aunt Martha’s luggage?”

  “We’re still decoding items. Why do you ask?”

  “What about the microfilm?” Andrew asked as he heard a voice in the background interrupting Neil; Nancy his secretary was urging him not to be late.

  “Sorry, Andrew, I have to go. I’m catching a flight to Phoenix.”

  “Phoenix? That’s where people go to retire and die.”

  “None of the above, Andrew...I’ll call you later today.”

  Andrew shrugged, hung up, refilled his coffee mug and looked at his watch. Harry Browne would not be in until 10:30 or 11:00 and he had some time to kill. He thought about Savalza and decided to wait until later and call him when the phone rang.

  “Andy, this is Jim, I have news. I’ll pick you up, we need to talk privately.”

  “Okay, Jim, but I can’t be away from here too long. There’s a lot going on today, plus I’m taking Charlene from the hospital to the Convent.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll pick you up in front of your shop in about ten minutes.”

  “Andrew was waiting and jumped into Jim’s car suggesting, “Why don’t we pull into the Times parking lot; you can use my parking spot while we talk. While we’re on that subject, Detective Savalza, what about my car?”

  “What about it?”

  “I need it.”

  “Are you referring to that beat up piece of metal that transports you from point A to point B? Is that a car?”

  “Wait a minute—my Land Cruiser is only eight years old even if it’s a little funky—it’s a classic!” he said indignantly.

  “Ohh, I see a classic! How could I have been so blind and insensitive,” Jim chortled. “Okay, I’ll see if it’s drivable. You know it took a beating, that is, a further beating, from the explosion, but I’ll check. I think the wind screen is gone...”

  Andrew just groaned and shook his head, “All right, do what you can, now, what’s the good news?”

  “The news is about the Ramsey number,” as Jim said and related his conversation with Captain Martin.

  After hearing about Ramsey contacting the police department for the body of a transient who turned out to be George Kelshaw, Andrew looked at Jim in amazement, “Remember that farm I was willing to bet? I’ll throw in all the equipment with it if Monte Maxwell, Jake Schultz and Leo Tanner and Ramsey are not all connected to George Kelshaw’s murder!”

  “Yeah, Andy you’re probably right, but the only one still alive is Lyle Ramsey. It’s very clear after finding out that Ramsey contacted the department about Kelshaw’s body, that this whole chain of events is tied together. And the only two threads we have at the moment that tie Ramsey to any of this are the phone number in Monte’s pocket and his call to headquarters about the body. We need more!” Jim was ponderous as he tapped the steering wheel. “Andy, who is Neil Klein?”

  “He is the Assistant Director of the Office of Intelligence and Research for the U.S. State Department, Jim,” Andrew responded in a matter of fact tone. “Remember, he is also Evan Scott.”

  “I knew this was big, Andrew, but I’m beginning to think that this may be much bigger than ...,” Jim sounded doubtful. “On the other hand if Lyle Ramsey is a player and if he had something to do with Monte’s death—I’d like to get him. Not because Monte was such an up-standing citizen, but because he was one of ours.”

  “You said you needed more, I think we’re about to get it. Jim, don’t let Neil Klein’s official title affect your thinking on this. He’s working on things from his end and he trusts and respects you to pull things together at this end. He knows you’re a good cop. Just think of him as Evan Scott.”

  “Okay, maybe I was getting cold feet there for a minute. Go on, get out of the car, I’ve got work to do..., I’m going to look for an old beat-up Toyota Land Cruiser.”

  ✽✽✽

  Phoenix, Arizona

  Thursday, October 2, 1980

  It was hot in Phoenix and it was even warm in the airport terminal when Fred Wellman and Neil Klein deplaned. They hurried to a car rental agency and were soon on their way to the desert home of now retired Saigon CIA ex-station Chief, T. R. Perkins.

  Not as large as would be denoted ‘grandiose’, still the Spanish hacienda style home was elegant. It boasted an oval swimming pool in a garden setting complete with a patio bar clearly designed for entertaining.

  A gardener was carefully arranging a plethora of fragrant and colorful potted shrubs in obvious preparation for a party. Upon entering the courtyard and looking around, Fred observed, “Some things never change.”

  They were greeted at the front door by a middle aged Hispanic housekeeper named Rosa who showed the men into a gracious Southwestern living room. T. R. Perkins was seated on a soft leather sofa and rose to greet them saying, “To what do I owe this questionable pleasure? Come in and sit down,” T. R. looked at the drink in his hand and offered, “Would either of you care for a libation?”

  Fred nodded as he said, “Yes, thanks, but make it something soft, iced tea would be good.”

  “I’ll have iced tea as well,” Neil echoed.

  Fred and Neil had taken chairs opposite T. R. and Fred began, “Thank you for seeing us, T. R., it’s been a long time.”

  “Rosa, please bring these gentlemen some iced tea. Yes,” T.R. said, responding to Wellman, “A very long time.” T. R. was eyeing Wellman and Klein doubtfully, wondering what brought them here.

  “T. R. I want to ask you one or two questions about Phillip Durkan,” Fred continued.

  Rosa returned with two frosty glasses of tea and served Fred and then Neil.

  “Now you were asking about Durkan? What do you want to know?”

  In his mind Fred was reviewing the conversation with Neil that took place on the plane. He had shown Klein the photograph and the information on Yanov Zemenek suggesting that there was another possible candidate for Big Bad Wolf.

  He cleared his throat and looked at T. R., “How long had you known him and how much did you know about Phillip Durkan when you hired him T. R.?”

  “How long? I don’t remember for sure...maybe two or three years. He did a lot of favors for us and for me in ‘Nam’. When we couldn’t get reliable intel across borders, Durkan ran the gauntlet for us. He knew the territory and was able to come and go without problems, so we used him. I never asked what color underwear he wore if that’s what you want to know,” he said s
arcastically.

  “So you trusted him ‘implicitly’ like you trusted Lia Dupre` for example, without any background check because you were such a good judge of character, is that right, T.R.?” Neil asked, pointedly sarcastic.

  Perkins gave Neil a scathing look, “We took what we could get, Klein. It wasn’t a goddamned garden party we were operating,” he swore at Neil angrily.

  “Oh?” Neil retorted, “I thought that was exactly what you were running, T.R., just one big dissolute garden party..., with all your ‘trusted’ friends,” he added.

  The hostility level was becoming unmanageable between T.R. and Klein. Neil had set his glass of tea on the table and was on his feet staring down at Perkins. Wellman had not seen Klein so close to losing control.

  Intervening, he stopped the verbal battle quietly stating, “T.R., you employed and allowed this Phillip Durkan to have access to Agency information and intelligence without checking with Headquarters and without even acquiring a dossier on him. Is that what you’re telling us?”

  “Listen, Wellman,” T.R. was angry now and defensive, “Durkan proved himself to me in key areas and he got the information for us that we otherwise would not have had. I think I’m a pretty good judge of character...,” his voice dropped as he met Neil Klein’s eyes.

  Wellman opened his briefcase and withdrew a file, “T.R., I want you to look at this picture and tell me who it is,” he said passing a photo to Perkins.

  “That’s Phillip Durkan,” T.R. declared.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely! What kind of a game is this, Wellman?” T.R. was edgy now.

  “Well, I’ll tell you, T.R., it’s no game; that photo you identified as Phillip Durkan is a photo of a Soviet KGB agent whose name is Yanov Zemenek. There is no Phillip Durkan—never was—not Australian, not a Brit or American. No Phillip Durkan.”

  T.R.’s face went blank—he didn’t understand, “What the hell are you talking about, Wellman? He worked for me; I should know!” he raged. “What are you trying to pull?”

  Fred handed him the photo with the accompanying information provided by Interpol, saying, “No, T.R., you don’t know. He is Yanov Zemenek, T.R., and he is KGB and a double agent.”

  Perkins looked at Neil and Fred insisting, “Bu..but you both knew him. You met him several times, Wellman; hell, we offered him my desk when I was leaving, if he was a spy why didn’t he take it?”

  “I guess that he had something he considered more important to do, T.R., like arranging the betrayal and assassination of some of our people and one of his own country’s national heroes,” Neil said without emotion.

  Wellman looking intently at a disbelieving Perkins and nodded his head soberly, “You’ve answered my questions, T.R., we’ll be going now, don’t bother to see us to the door. We’ll find our way out.”

  Neil paused and looked at T.R. with disgust, “You’re very fortunate that the Agency let you retire, Perkins. Personally, I wish they had tied a can to you and put you on the street; and that’s far better than you deserve.”

  Wellman and Klein walked briskly to their car leaving an old crestfallen T.R. Perkins with a stale unfinished drink in his hand.

  ✽✽✽

  On the drive back to the Phoenix airport Neil inquired irritably, “Fred, why doesn’t the Agency pull that guy’s retirement and put him on the street?”

  Fred drawled, “Well you know, Neil, it’s a small price to pay. T.R. won’t live forever and if we kicked him he’d just contact some tabloid and tell some sorry-ass story about how bad the CIA treated a ‘true-blue’ American ‘son’. This way we know where he lives.”

  Neil hmmphed in disgust, but he understood the logic employed by the Agency in dealing with a reprobate like Perkins. The word tabloid jarred his memory. He thought of the call from Andrew Kincaid that he had cut short this morning with a promise to call later today. What had he said about microfilm? “I’d better call when we get to the airport.”

  Fred dropped Neil and proceeded to turn in the car rental while Klein placed a call to Seattle.

  Andrew answered his phone almost immediately. “Neil, thanks for the call...,”

  “What’s this about microfilm in the packet?”

  “Neil, Kelshaw put some information on microfilm in the packet.”

  “How do you know that, Andrew?” Neil was puzzled, he was certain the packet had not been compromised.

  “Listen to me, Neil; Jack Hubbard told me about Kelshaw’s last days with him in Bangkok—didn’t you know about GCI?”

  “GCI? No, Andrew I don’t know anything about GCI and we haven’t found any microfilm in the packet.”

  “Look again, it has to be there!” Andrew insisted.

  “All right, Andrew, I’ve got to go, they’re calling my flight..., I’ll talk to Wellman.

  As Neil and Fred fastened their seatbelts Neil quickly surveyed the seating area close to them. Several seats behind and next to them were empty. Fred noticing Neil’s sudden heightened awareness, whispered, “What’s going on?”

  He waited until Neil turned and quietly asked, “Have you looked at all the contents of Aunt Martha’s luggage?”

  Surprised Fred responded, “I believe so, why?”

  “Because Andrew Kincaid believes we may have missed something; he believes there may be some microfilm in the luggage. He said Aunt Martha put it in and it’s very important.”

  “I’ll go through it again; do we know what it’s pictures of?”

  “No, I haven’t any idea; Fred what do you know about GCI?”

  “Only that it’s a big international construction company that works all over the world.”

  “Have you heard anything negative about it?”

  “Not particularly; oh there have been some rumbles and rumors about some of their labor practices, but since they use labor pools from all over the world I would suppose that could be a common problem. I haven’t heard anything that would cause anyone to raise their heads. Why do you ask?”

  “Andrew Kincaid mentioned it in conjunction with his assertion that there is more in the luggage.”

  “I guess we’d better look in the luggage again.”

  ✽✽✽

  Harry Browne caught up with Andrew as he was coming back from his meeting with Savalza. “Kincaid, I have some very interesting information for you on GCI.”

  “You’re a good man, Harry; what have you got?”

  “Take a look at this,” Harry said excitedly as he waved a sheet of paper at Andy with a list of names and countries. “It’s list of the Board of Directors of GCI. All their names and the twelve countries they represent and who the officers are.”

  Harry read the list, “CEO and Chairman of the Board, Karel Schneiderman, Switzerland; President, Helmut Herzog, West Germany; CFO, Roget Navarre, France; followed by Board Members: Carlos Cardoso, Argentina; Oscar Gustavson, Sweden; Johan Von Amsberg, Netherlands; Elias Nasser, Egypt; Juan Aznar, Spain; Mohammed Said, Saudi Arabia; Rafael Betancourt, Venezuela; and Harrison A. Carr, United States. It looks like an international who’s who list. Most of these guys carry a lot of weight; they’re big time Bankers, Lawyers, Industrialists and diplomats. You’ve got to tell me what you’re working on Andy,” Harry urged.

  Andrew stared at the list of names and said, as his eyes focused on the name Harrison A. Carr, “Harry Browne, I could kiss you...actually, several people I know owe you!”

  “Thanks a lot Kincaid, but I’ll settle for a story and never mind the kisses,” Harry smiled. When?”

  “Soon, Harry, very, very soon. Hold on for a little while longer. Oops, I’ve got to go, got a date with a lady at Harborview.”

  ✽✽✽

  When Andrew arrived, Sister Ruth was with Charlene gathering some of Charlene’s things as she prepared to leave the hospital.

  “Ready?” he asked looking at Charlene. “I have a cab waiting, I wanted you to go home in comfort,” he laughed lightly. “The Land Cruiser needs work.”


  “Andrew I am glad to see you here,” Sister Ruth hugged him. I’ll just take these things with me and I’ll meet you two at the Convent,” she smiled at Andrew knowingly and whispered, “I think you two should have a little time alone.”

  “Me too, Sister,” Andrew closed the door behind Ruth, and said to Charlene, “Come here.”

  She was standing, her eyes still bandaged, but she carefully stepped toward his voice. “Andy, I’m so happy to be leaving here.”

  “Me too, sweetheart.” His arms were around her and lifting her face he gently kissed her. They held each other briefly and she touched her fingertips to her lips, then to his. “I want so much to see you, Andrew. The bandages come off in a day or two, then ..,” she faltered.

  “Shh, it’s going to be okay, trust me,” he said confidently as he kissed her again. “C’mon let’s get out of here!”

  The Convent of St. Helena was housed in one of the old ivy covered brick Capitol Hill family homes. It had belonged to a doctor whose family of ten had left the seven bedroom nest, at which time he and his wife opted for less space and more freedom and selected a townhouse on Tenth Avenue.

  Several of the Sisters of St. Helena were waiting as Andrew delivered Charlene into the capable hands of Sister Ruth and Sister Cecelia, a tall, smiling upbeat Nun.

  He winked at Ruth as he kissed Charlene on the cheek and said, “I’ll call after while and make sure the Sisters are treating you well.”

  Charlene smiled saying over her shoulder, “Thank you, Andy and I’ll look forward to your call,” as Sister Ruth took her hand and led her toward a sitting room.

  “Don’t think about anything right now, dear, you just sit here and put your feet up and rest,” Ruth said tucking a soft throw around Charlene.

  Ruth hurried back to where Andrew waited. “Now don’t worry about Charlene, we’ll take very good care of her. Before you go though there’s something you should know, Andrew; while I was at Charlene’s house getting some clothing and some of her personal items I took a call from a friend of hers, Olivia Coleman.